The morning was fair and bright, and the fragrance of flowers reached the nostrils as steel-shod boots walked on the white stones that made up the paths of the capital city of Annúminas, striding confidently towards the great house in the distance. Under the morning sun Tùrin walked with his head held high, the White Tree on his armour gleaming in the morning light. Every now and then he passed someone he knew, and they greeted him, and he responded in return. The denizens of Annùminas had been quick to make this land their own, seemingly quick to forget the land of their birth that was over the Sea and now in the hands of the Shadow. They may have been born in Númenor, but here in Arnor was their home.

Two guards stood stiffly at attention at the entrance as he passed them by, reaching a high platform above a green terrace, at the foot of which a bright spring gushed from a stone carved in the shape of an eagle, beneath was a wide basin from which the water spilled. Guards stood tall at the foot of stairs at the far end of the terrace, and the sun shone bright upon their mail, and their dark hair was braided on their shoulders.

As he approached, they lifted the bars of the doors and swung those inwards, and Tùrin gave them a quick salute as he strode ahead. He made his way straight towards the study, passing carved pillars and lofty halls.

Narah Marsh hid a smile when she saw Tùrin pass through the gilded doors of the study, then halting in surprise to see the seat behind the great desk empty.

“So the High King did scrape the bottom of the barrel,” she said, amused at Tùrin’s surprise as he turned around to see her standing inconspicuously beside the door. Surprise marked his features before he rolled his eyes.

“It seems so, seeing that you are here,” Tùrin replied. “I assume my cousin’s message brought you hither?”

Narah gasped in mock surprise. “Will you look at that? The great Captain of Men really has a brain, small though it may be! This is an occasion worth a celebration!”

“Why you-”

“Ow! Stop pulling my hair, you brute!”

“I’m not a brute!”

“You are, you…you nerfherder!”

“Narah! Tùrin!”

Both of them froze to see Elendil standing in the doorway, his lips quirked up in amusement on seeing two of his kinsmen (who were well past the age of the irresponsible years, or supposed to be, at the very least) behave like siblings fighting over a toy. Piercing grey eyes held mirth in them as he watched the two disentangle themselves from each other and stand apart with flushed faces.

“I have not seen such behaviour since Isildur and Anárion were children, and they would do everything short of lighting the house on fire,” the High King of the Men of the West in Exile remarked, trying to appear stern but failing as Narah and Tùrin grew redder. He shook his head, still smiling, before bidding them to take a seat and himself sitting on his chair behind the desk.

“To be honest, I should have expected this from the both of you,” he said. “Your actions in the Kitchen Disaster last year were not exactly subtle-”

“It was not my fault that Narah threw an egg at Beleg!” Tùrin exclaimed, having recovered somewhat. Beside him, Narah gasped and replied indignantly, “He emptied a packet of flour on me first!”

“Then why did you throw the bowl of cream at me?”

“Because you are his best friend and you were laughing!”

“Children!” Elendil exclaimed, laughing. “Much as I would like to hear more about the Disaster that earned the three of you a permanent ban from the Kitchens, I have called you to discuss about a more important issue. Something of paramount importance to the North Kingdom has been stolen a week ago.”

His words sucked out the levity in the room, as Tùrin and Narah’s faces became more sombre. “The missive reached me the day before yesterday,” Tùrin replied. “The Rangers of Sarn Ford found the guards of Amon Sûl slain and the palantír stolen. Yet I find that most are unaware of this theft. Why is this so?”

“Surely such an incident would put all of Arnor on guard,” Narah added quietly.

“Indeed, that is what would happen in such a case,” Elendil agreed. “But that would mean that the investigation would cease to be secret, which is something that should be avoided.”

“Why?” Tùrin argued. “The Seeing Stone is no mere stone. Why should everyone not be made aware? The more eyes you have, the faster you will retrieve the Stone.”

Elendil looked at his cousin’s face, and it seemed to Narah that the High King’s eyes seemed to pierce through her and Tùrin. “Because, cousin, it was not an assault that saw the Stone being stolen and the guards slain. Investigation has shown that the guards let in the thief willingly, and were slain before they knew what was going on. No guard would hinder a comrade or superior, it may be, if they come to visit them.”

Narah sat back in her chair as if she was struck in the face, hit hard with the meaning of Elendil’s words. Her head was spinning, but she forced out the words. “You fear one of us has turned traitor.”

Tùrin’s head snapped to face her, ready to protest, but Elendil nodded, his face grave. “Aye, it is so. There is an Imposter among us.”

“And with Arnor already on edge with the failed assassination attempt, thanks to Narah,” Tùrin nodded at her. “You refuse to reveal this discovery to avoid a mass panic and chaos. If all of our attention is to find the traitor and the palantír, we could very well be caught unawares by an invasion from Nùmenor.”

“Consider, cousin, how well it would play in the Enemy’s favour,” Elendil said. “If the citizens and soldiers of Arnor are suddenly mistrustful of each other and accuse them of kinslaying and theft, it would be easy for him to sow more discontent among us, and the last bastion of hope of Men would fall. Without the Edain to aid them, Middle Earth would fall to the Shadow, and his victory would be so swift that none can foresee its end till this world lasts.”

“What possible courses could the thief take, now that he has the Stone?” Narah asked, her mind mulling over the possibilities. “He cannot use it, and he cannot take it to Mordor, for if that were his goal he would have stolen a Stone from Gondor, and it is many miles from Arnor to Mordor. The only choice he has is to take it to the Enemy in Nùmenor. Should not the ports be warned to keep a lookout for all departures and arrivals since the day of the theft, and careful examination of all passengers and goods scheduled for travelling over water?”

Elendil gave a nod of approval. “You have a wise mind, young one. And that is what has been done, though few officials know the truth. Messengers have been dispatched to Lindon and Gondor, and all the ports from Mithlond to Pelargir are under watch. Unless the thief manages to escape Eriador, the vigilance of Gondor and Rohan, and go as far south as Umbar, he will not be able to sail over the Sea. Nay, he is still in Arnor, and he is to be caught before he can do further mischief.”

Tùrin drew a sharp breath. “Is that why you have called us? We are to aid in ferreting out the traitor?”

“That, and more,” Elendil produced a map and laid it on the desk. “The both of you, along with such companions as I have chosen, will travel along the East-West Road, posing as an escort for a group of merchants from the Blue Mountains,” His finger traced the path they were to take. “From here you are to travel northwards. For the past few months there have been reports of frequent orc raids and skirmishes along the borders. Villages have been pillaged and burnt; travellers have been waylaid and robbed, and it is said that tensions have increased with the wild hill-men of the north. If the Stone is taken and hid there, it would be a great stroke in the favour of the Enemy. The direct link between Arnor and Gondor has been broken, and messages by horse will take time, and the roads are getting dangerous by the day. One with a strong will can exploit the powers of the Stone and spy on our doings, knowing our plans and movements and reporting them to the Enemy.” Elendil looked up at the both of them. “Your task is to inspect these areas and aid in what ways you can, securing our lands and folk while making discrete enquiries.”
Tùrin nodded, his eyes bright. “Fear not, cousin. We shall succeed.”

“Then it is settled,” Elendil folded the map and handed it to him. “Make ready to leave in a few days’ time.”

Tùrin nodded and got up to leave, but Narah stopped from doing the same as a thought entered her mind. “You said you will choose our companions,” she asked. “Who are these companions you speak of, my King?”

Elendil gave her a smirk in answer.

“We are not lost.”

Thorne continued to mutter the words as he swept his gaze across the arctic-like landscape with its sheets of glacial ice buried under more snowfall. Harsh winds raked across the terrain, creating a wall of snow that seemed almost blizzard-like in its intensity. It was not enough that the air he was forced to breathe chilled his insides, but the wind picking up momentum was assailing his exposed skin ruthlessly. Even though only his face was exposed to the elements while the rest of him was buried under several layers of thermal clothing, it still felt as if he was standing naked in the middle of the tundra. Only the blood of Durin that flowed in his veins and the natural strength and hardiness of dwarves prevented him from collapsing.

The Icebay of Forochel was not a very welcoming place, he thought. The remnant of Morgoth’s realm of eternal cold still had not shrugged off its master’s hold even after he had been banished out of Arda. Few people inhabited these lands, and certainly none further north of the bay. For none knew what evils might still lurk in the depths of the Great Enemy’s realm, waiting to hear their master’s call to rise and plague this unhappy world. The servants of Morgoth, of whom Sauron was the cruellest, were many and varied, and not all had been destroyed when the Host of Valinor dragged Morgoth back to Valinor in chains.

“Broker a trade agreement with the Helegwaith, they said. It will be fun, they said,” he continued to mutter as he tried to ascertain the correct path to his destination, his eyes straining to find the sun hidden above the clouds.

“We have come too far west. Unless you have a desire to take a bath in the freezing waters of the bay, I suggest we turn south.”

The deep voice startled Thorne as he was pulled out of his reverie, his eyes meeting the ones of his second-in-command, Matti. The man of many seasons was tiny in stature compared to the half-dwarf, but no less hardy. Dark eyes set in a stern face peeked out from underneath the hood of the caribou parka while his hands, covered with sealskin mitts, brushed away the snow that had settled on his clothing. Behind them was their main retinue, comprising of soldiers, healers and others, along with sledges containing the supplies and items for trade.

They had set from the capital of Suri-kyla a week ago, sent on a diplomatic mission by the chieftain Yrjana to broker a peace treaty with the Helegwaith, a tribe of nomads who had settled in the previously uninhabited region of Ja-rannit only a few years ago. They tilled no land and ate no bread. Their women prepared kumiss and cheese, and the men played on their pipes, drank kumiss and ate mutton, and skated on ice using bones tied to their feet. They were a stout and merry people, quite ignorant about the outside world, but were good-natured enough. Thorne and his retinue were dispatched not long ago to negotiate with the Helegwaith Elder to broker a trade agreement between their tribes, which would mutually benefit each other.

“If we turn south, we should reach the Helegwaith settlement by tomorrow evening, unless you wish to swim in the Forochel bay,” Matti said again as he watched Thorne floundering for directions. How the half-dwarf could charge into a company of barbarians with naught but his axe and yet be confused with his bearings was beyond the man’s comprehension.

“One does not simply swim in the Icebay of Forochel unless they are deranged,” Thorne grunted, glaring at Matti who returned with a stare of his own. “We head south.”

It was as Matti had predicted – the lingering rays of the setting sun had lit up the world in a dim glow before the darkness of night set in by the time they reached the settlement of the Helegwaith. The felt-covered tents on the steppes by a river came into view before the first signs of activity could be discerned from afar. A roaring fire was lit in the midst, providing light and warmth to those bustling in their evening activities. As soon as the inhabitants caught a glimpse of the visitors, they came out of their tents and gathered around them. An interpreter was found, and she welcomed them, and took Thorne and Matti to one of their best tents, while the remainder of their retinue stayed behind to interact with the commoners.

Thorne and Matti were sat on a felt carpet and handed cups of kumiss, and they drank to their host’s good health. The Helegwaith were delighted with the presents handed out to them, and they talked among themselves, and asked the interpreter to translate.

“They wish to say that they have taken a liking to you,” said the interpreter, a short, lean girl of twenty. “We have seldom received visitors ever since we arrived from the north, and certainly none of such a stature that dwarfs even our tallest people. It is our custom to please our guests as well as we can. Tell us how we may repay your kindness, and we will do so in earnest.”

“We ask not for repayment, for gifts are given freely,” Throne answered in his deep baritone voice, feeling amused at how a dwarf could effectively dwarf a group of Men. Perhaps it was the elvish blood in him. “We have come at the behest of our chieftain, who desires an agreement of trade between our people. We seek the Elder, for it is to him we were to speak.”

“Father is away on an errand, but he will return any moment,” the interpreter answered. “In fact, I would be much surprised if it is not he who enters now.”

As she spoke, a dark, lean man in a large fox-fur cap entered the tent. All became silent and rose to their feet. “Hail Elder Kekkonen, leader of the Helegwaith,” the interpreter said.

“Welcome to Ja-rannit, emissaries of the chieftain,” Elder Kekkonen addressed Thorne and Matti as they bowed and introduced themselves. “I will not feign ignorance at the nature of your errand, and I say this unto you, it will be the pleasure of the Helegwaith to trade with Suri-kyla.”

“You are wise, Elder,” Thorne answered. “Such an agreement would benefit both of our people, and in time we would prosper more than ever.”

“Your words intrigue me,” Elder Kekkonen said as he sat in the place of honour. “I wish to hear more of it.”
Thorne sat down on the carpet, followed by the others. “It would be beneficial for both of our people if we…”

The talks went for a long time, and it was a good three hours before Thorne and Elder Kekkonen shook hands, sealing the agreement. “No more business for today,” the Elder said. “Come; let us show you how we entertain our esteemed guests.”

The fire blazed higher as they went outside, with the commoners standing around it in a circle holding hands and dancing to the beat of drums. Men stood around the circle playing on their pipes. Two sheep had been killed in honour of the guests, and their mutton was being roasted over a smaller fire. Cups of kumiss were being passed around, and all drank to the other’s good health.

Thorne did not join them, being content with standing at one side with a cup of kumiss in his hand. The dancing flames flickered in his eyes as his mind was far away, into the deeps of time where he had, in his youth, returned home to find it burning as ferociously as the fire currently in front of him. That fire had taken his mother from him, and his father had been lost. All that remained of his home besides the burning cinders of the cottage had been Leravere, his sister, and he had lost her as well. His other hand was near his chest, clenched around the round stone she had given to him when they were prisoners of a band of orcs. Never lose heart, little brother, she had told him. Never think you are alone. Father and mother are in our hearts and I will never leave you alone, I promise.

She had broken her promise, and he never saw her again.

“General?”

Thorne looked at his side to find Matti looking at him, holding something in his hand. “Ere we left, the chieftain bade me give you this after our mission was completed.”

Thorne’s curiosity was piqued as Matti fumbled at the pouch on his belt, and produced a somewhat travel-worn scroll of parchment, which he held out to the half-dwarf. Thorne took it and inched closer to the fire for more light. His eyes shot up in surprise as he read the contents, and he turned to Matti for clarification, but the Man had already left. He had not expected that chieftain Yrjana would release him from his services just after he had completed his mission and that too over a letter and not a private audience.

Apart from the chieftain’s praise over his excellent work and aid to the tribes, no reason was stated, except that some king in Eriador had need of his services and had effectively “loaned” him from the Lossoth. That king was-

“Elendil, you sly fox,” Thorne muttered as he now looked at the second scroll he had not noticed earlier. He carefully examined the seal before breaking it, lifting the wax carefully from the parchment before reading it. He stood straighter the further he read, his body tensing by the minute. After finishing the letter, he raised his eyes to the sky, but no sign of his thoughts showed in his face. He had already made his decision.

“To Annúminas I go.”

The smell of sweat assaulted Meoyë’s nostrils as she sat in stony silence, her mind refusing to register what she had just heard. To a bystander, she would simply be an ordinary exotic dark-haired beauty, with eyes as deep as the pits of Utumno and a smile that kindled a fire in even the hardest of hearts. They would not be able to comprehend the pain and secrets hidden in the depths of her eyes and the storm that raged in her heart.

For as long as Meoyë could remember, she had never belonged anywhere. Even in her early years where she had left to journey in the wild, she had remained an anomaly, a loner who was shunned by the races of Men of the East. The dwarves of the Orocarni had treated her as nothing more than a beast, while the Avari had preferred to have as little communication with her people as possible. Only among her people, the skin-changers, had she found the closest thing to a family, and even that had been snatched from her when the Easterlings had started hunting them for sport – underfeeding and torturing them in their bestial forms and then letting them fend for themselves in the gladiator pits, where they fell to the scimitars and spears of the Easterlings amidst the joyous uproar and applause of the crowds – while others had been forcibly taken for a darker purpose.

Tall altars were raised, wrought of stone that was blacker than the night. The pavestones ran slick and sticky with gushing blood and were littered with torn flesh and gnawed bones as the dogs of war fought over the remains. Priests clad in black robes with the Red Eye raised vile chants to the skies as fires burned down homes, the smoke of evil reaching to taint the heavens.

There Meoyë’s people had met their end, sacrificed at the altar of the Temple of Melkor, Lord of Darkness. Chants of “Kill the changelings!” and “Down with the half-beasts!” were taken up as the skin-changers, once a proud and mighty people, were brought to their knees. Their chieftain had been the first to fall, his throat slit to let the river of life flow in rivulets to the channels cut into the rock.

Tribe after tribe of skin-changers had fallen to the Cult of Melkor till the handful that survived were scattered in the wild like leaves in a storm. Families were dragged from their homes and sacrificed as Sauron’s whispers stirred the darkness in the hearts of Men, and a shadow so foul and fell spread throughout the East that the creatures of the earth fled before it.

There was no deliverance for Meoyë in the East, so she had followed in the steps of her ancestors and fled westwards, to the promise of a land where their kind still dwelt in peace and where the Darkness had not snuffed out the light. But she found not what she sought even though she travelled far and wide, for that land was over the Sea, in Valinor where the Powers of the World dwelt, and no Child of Eru save the Eldar had leave to reach.

And here she was, seated in the Roheryn’s Roost in Rohan, looking with undisguised shock at the half-Elf who sat opposite her. Her red lips remained parted in surprise before she pursed them. It was not the first time she had been made an offer that sounded too good to be true. She was no stranger to deception, and she would measure the other’s words before deciding. Meoyë was, after all, nothing if not cunning.

“Tell me,” she said, praying that the other had not heard the slight tremor in her voice. “Why should I risk my life for something that may be denied to me when the job is done? What guarantee do I have that the bargain made shall be honoured?”

“Guarantee?” Leravere’s eyes danced with mischief. “Is the word of the greatest Lord of Men to walk on these shores since the sinking of Beleriand and the High King of Gondor and Arnor not enough? You would doubt the word of Elendil?”

“Fancy titles are oft a poor judge of character,” Meoyë answered, although she had to admit that she held Elendil in high regard. She had wanted to meet him to see if he was truly as great as the stories told. And now that, and more, seemed possible to achieve if she was to believe Leravere’s words. But the mind of someone who has been hunted for the most of her life was not made easily, and Meoyë would not make any decision that would threaten her survival.

“That may be true for lesser Men, but not for those with the blood of Numenor,” Leravere replied. “Especially not for those with the blood of all the royal Houses of both the Eldar and the Edain, not to mention a strain of the spirits divine that were before Arda.” 

Meoyë could not care less for fabled bloodlines, for she felt the character of a person was by their own choosing and not entirely by the blood that flowed through their veins. “Tell me, Tinnuiel,” she called Leravere by her alias, rolling the l in a pleasant tone. “Why should I accept Elendil’s offer when I can have what I seek in Rohan without any strings attached? These lands are vast and full of opportunities, and I can settle here in peace and privacy without running amok in the wilds of Eriador.”

“You can,” Leravere agreed. “How is that working out for you?” She saw Meoyë’s jaw tighten, but she continued. “The Men of Rohan, for all their good points, are no scholars. They are people of horses and wood and grass and land, with little thought for ancient lore. They are proud and wilful, but they are true-hearted, generous in thought and deed; bold but not cruel; wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years. Little do they know of Elves and Dwarves and skin-changers and magic, and they are unsettled by them. Never will they accept you as their own; instead they will hold you in awe and no small amount of fear. And what Men fear…”

“They seek to destroy,” Meoyë finished the sentence quietly, her eyes cast down in despondence as her fingers tightened into fists. She said nothing, but she knew in her heart that Tinnuiel was right – she would never have a family in Rohan, or anywhere else for that matter. She would always be hunted by the Secondborn, for sport, sacrifice or pleasure, simply for being who she was – someone different.

“Meoyë,” Leravere’s voice was soft now. “As reward for your service, Elendil offers to make you a citizen of Arnor and grant you a land of your own. For my part, I can offer something more – a home and a family to call your own. Others may fear you for being different, but that is what makes you unique. Do not hate it, but cherish it for that is what sets you apart from them. You are beautiful and kind and caring, and you deserve more than being on the run forever. We accept you with open arms. Can you not let us do that, or will you not?”

Flattery. Appreciation. These were the chinks in Meoye’s armour. Mentally, Meoyë could not help but commend Leravere, for she had played her cards well; she had known which buttons to press to weaken Meoyë’s resolve. And if what Elendil offered was true, then things might start looking up for her. Perhaps, in time, she could bring all who remained of her kind from the East, and establish a fresh community among the vales of Eriador, in the West.

Maybe throwing her lot with the Dunedain and their allies wouldn’t be a bad idea after all, she thought.

“What say you?” Leravere’s voice now had an undertone of mischief in it, and a grin appeared on her face. “Are you up for an adventure?”

Characters in this chapter:
Narah Marsh and Leravere by Ashgreenleaf
Túrin by @me
Meoyë by Definitely-Lost
Thorne by Ashgreenleaf

This chapter was in works for a long time, and I'm glad to finally publish it today! Read, vote and spam, Spam Gang! FORTH SPAMGANGLINGAS!

Also, this chapter is dedicated to Ashgreenleaf ,as it is their birthday today! Happy birthday and many many happy returns of the day Ash!