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ZERO.
to hunt a ranger.

(  ithilien ━ the third age, 3017 )

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A WICKED WIND OF REVENGE CLUNG TO THE HOODED CLOAK OF THE SCOUT. She was as furious as a sandstorm, and the Gondorian weather did well to mind the foreigner's wrath. It seemed as if the Great Eye himself had reassured her secrecy, hidden from the watchful foes she had set out to destroy; those who would seek to prevent her task. Those who she was hunting.

Despite the harsh current, the forests of Ithilien were much kinder than the deserts of Harad, which she was more accustomed to. The thick grove provided ample coverage for her to follow the rangers. It had taken her three days to catch up to them, after spotting them a week prior, and despite her abilities as a renowned tracker, she had a hard time finding them. The rangers' movements are many and swift, and they knew this landscape like the back of their hands, unlike the stranger who stalked them.

The silence of Ithilien was deafening, if not for the occasional call of a loon or the ruffling of her cloak against the leaves. She didn't mind the stillness, however, and instead wished for the company of her horse, whom she had left behind in Harad. She even missed the company of her older brother, the Haradrim general who had sent her on this quest only a fortnight ago.

Most of all, she missed her sister.

She was gaining on the soldiers now; maybe even a little too close for her comfort, but she made sure to give herself some room. What had finally given them away was a rather large encampment near the bottom of a cliffside, with the remnants of a fire still barely smoking. Their heavy bootprints had littered the ground around the campsite, which was near the skeleton of an enormous Mûmakil. She had smelled their bonfire the night before, as she nearly froze to death herself. She wished for a fire, but knew better than to give her position away.

The small pack of ten moved stealthily through the hills and plateaus of the brushy region. They were horseless, but still moving with great speed. The rangers kept to the higher ground. Smart, she commended them, but it left her with scarce scouting points and a lengthy following distance . She took note of their positions and movements — how they separated from each other, but never too far away to help one another, and seemed to know exactly where they were at all times.

As a stranger to this land, however, and on her own mission, the scout noted patches of plains and meadows scattered throughout the forest that would be enough to house a great host of Haradrim. Every five fathoms or so, she would stop to smirch a tree or brush slightly off her path, marking her path for those that would follow behind. Her quest to scout ahead for her brother's army had not been her idea, but she was grateful for the opportunity to prove herself.

The patrol was hard to see sometimes, with their rugged olive toned hoods that seemed to melt into the surrounding landscape. The scout fashioned a tanner beige, the earthy tones merged with the nearby foothills and the long grasses of the dead season. It helped to keep her hidden, and she was more than thankful for it. She had traveled light thus far: with minimal rations, a scimitar at her hip, a hidden dagger, and a standard Haradrim longbow ( that featured her own personal modifications ). Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she maneuvered through the brush forests. She was as sly and silent as a fox, imagining herself stalking through the sand dunes of Harad to sneak upon her prey. The Southron was ready at a moment's notice to strike at the rangers; they would never see her coming.

After studying them from afar, she had deciphered who the leader among them was. Each morning, it was easy to see who the captain was — he woke up the earliest, relieving the night-watcher of his guard. He roused the rest of his men by shaking their shoulders and greeting them with an endearing tilt of his head or a soft call of a bird that she didn't recognize. Most were alert, but some looked groggy, still wishing to be in their dreams of home.

The sage cloak was always wrapped about him, and she noted that he was always mindful of it covering his face. His arms were covered by umber hide bracers, darker than the leather breastplate revealed under his cape. When he turned, she could see silver embroidery peeking from out of the shadows of his chest plate; they seemed to shimmer with the early light of the morning as the sun emerged through the limbs of the dense trees.

The scout had watched them spar a few times in the last days. He was an adept warrior, and a good teacher. She respected his use of the broadsword, carefully observing his foot movements and style of swordplay — how Western it was compared to her own swordsmanship. It seemed that the men called duels against their own captain, who never purposefully engaged in a fight, even if it were to practice. However, he would oblige them. Every time he stood up to accept the challenge, he would win.

Each man would either fall flat on their back or with the point of his sword at their neck. Despite the rangers loss against their captain, they all showed signs of endearment to their leader, and listened to his guidance after they had accepted their fate. In return, it seemed as if he truly loved his men; showing his dedication through teaching, philosophy, and protection — as he would keep behind the group of rangers when they were on the move, making sure his men were safe from skulking Orcs, Easterlings, or Haradrim . . .

Although he was skilled with a blade, she knew that he favored the bow. His hunting was an art. She had watched his tracking patterns with great intent, keeping to the plateaus when he would venture off on his own to stalk a herd of deer or set up traps for coneys. Easily, his arrows found their marks, even with the scarce amount of food she had noticed in Ithilien. He would bring back at least two deer each time. Although they were smaller, they were still incredibly heavy, and he tied ropes around their legs to heave them back to camp; which he never seemed to have trouble finding.

She watched him with much anger, but her heart ached for her sister.

The sunset proved brilliantly; golden beams reached her dark eyes, with crimson rays peeking in through the bright copper clouds. She interpreted the blood-like stain on the sky as if the Great Eye looked upon her in favor on her journey. The thought of killing him then and there weighed heavily on her mind. She had him in the wild — separated from his men — an easy target for an especially skilled archer.

A bitter wind drastically cooled the temperate forest, chilling her down to her bones. In her mind's eye she could see herself pulling the bow back, an arrow notched into place. How simply she could have let go of the string . . . let the arrow find its mark. . . avenge her sister. . .

She gripped the hilt of her scimitar, letting the thought roll over her head. That was not what her brother had sent her to this land for, but it was her motivation for accepting the scouting quest. She recalled when her sister's body returned from Harondor, on the border of South Gondor and Harad, bloodied and bruised beyond recognition. Tavia had served Harad as a corporal, leader of the best patrol in her assigned battalion. Her company of twelve was stationed along the river Poros, keeping watch of the Harad Road, when they were ambushed by Rangers. The mangled bodies of Tavia's troupe were found by emissaries sent to restock their supplies.

They found their camp in smoldering ruins, and the corporal's tent soaked with blood. Inside the quarters, everything was in disarray. The cot had been flipped and stained, wax from fallen candles and glass from the broken lantern littered the crimson stained floor; and worst of all, her sister had been found hewn and defiled with the emblem of a silver Castar of Gondor burned onto her forehead. A piece of parchment was embedded in her heart by a silver dagger with the words: "The Son of the Steward sends his regards."

She breathed deeply, releasing the grip on her blade, and moving her hand to her pocket. The parchment crinkled at her touch, and she immediately pulled her fingers away. She knew that he was not the only one to blame for the death of her sister. This man before her was the reason for her anguish following the death of her sister. . . they were all guilty. A dark thought had lingered in her mind — something that she had thought of the second her brother had assigned her this task: that she might not return. At first, this notion had terrified her, but death had never been a stranger to her. If she were to die by avenging her sister, she would count it as gain.

Evening had come and gone, and she had slowly trailed behind the captain as he made his way to the camp for the night. The men looked eager to eat after the day's long march. The woman was starving, too, and she pulled out her dried rations, wishing they were the fresh venison she smelled cooking below. Thankfully, she had scored a position above them, a well secluded high ground that was far enough from their firelight, but still allowed her to see the glow of the embers. She was exhausted, and the rocks she leaned against weren't comfortable in the slightest. Careful not to let her guard completely down, she would allow herself to close her eyes for a minute or two at a time. It had been weeks since she had a proper night's sleep, or slept in something that weren't the dirty clothes on her back.

She decided she would attack in the early hours of the morning, when most of the men would be asleep, and all lay under the open sky. Her location laid charge to their position in the shape of a horseshoe, where she could easily pick them off man by man with her bow. Not only would their deaths benefit her and the general that she called brother, but also the Kingdom of Harad. With the death of the Steward's son, the armies of Gondor would lose a vital commander, and the borders of Harad would be stayed from the grasp of the White Tower. With a captain of Gondor dead, her sister could finally rest.

To have him so close in her grasp was too easy; his life was unknowingly in her hands. She wanted to start with him first, only wounding him in front of his men. Then, one by one, she would make each of his men suffer in front of their captain; waiting until he was so close to death, craving it, but she wouldn't grant him it yet. No. She wanted to let him suffer for what he had done. Prolonging his aching and never ending pain until he'd stand on the edge of the cliff — the very brink of death — then she'd bring him back and do it all over again.

The waves of sleep were reaching out to her by now, and she allowed herself to close her eyes. . . where the most unpleasant of dreams awaited her.

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BY THE TIME SHE WAKES, THE SUN HAD BARELY STARTED TO MAKE ITS ASCENT INTO THE WORLD ABOVE. Groggily, she rubbed her eyes as they adjusted to the dim light. She sent curses to herself for letting herself sleep longer than she was meant to. It was well past time the ambush should have started.

The Haradrim girl rummaged around her makeshift camp to gather her belongings, picking up her quiver, and hauling it across her shoulders. Her neck strained from the uncomfortable position that she slept from all night, and she hoped that it would not affect her ability to shoot. She was sore everywhere.

She breathed deeply, a sudden realization of the task now right in front of her. As she started positioning herself on the ridge, Below, she could hear the captain stir. It was time to wake his men. Muffled voices filled the morning as he exchanged whispered greetings to men of that night's watch. The embers from last night's supper wafted upwards to her nostrils, and she remembered how hungry she was, thinking of when she had her last real meal. She took out a handful of the dried fruits and jerky, settling herself into a nook on the ridge.

She shook her head to clear it, her fleeting strength momentarily regaining itself. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, the Southron crouched below the tree line to spot her targets. She reached across for her bow, and breathed in once again, not yet taking an arrow from her quiver. Her breath's release was silent, careful to not disturb the perfect moment to strike.

Now, she fetched the arrow from her back. It was camouflaged in the natural landscape, opposite of the normally fashioned black feathers of the Harad. She latched the thin dart's backing onto the stretched string, taking in another silent breath. She was ready.

The young woman hesitated to pull back on the bow, as she counted the Rangers before her. She could see the captain patting the shoulder of a man coming off of the night guard; he had started to walk around to wake the rest of them. Three were to his right, two to his left, and another one lay behind him. Eight of ten Men were presently in her sight, the remaining two, she knows not where.

A loon of sorts called over her shoulder. Seconds later, another sang at a different pitch. She cocked her head over her shoulder to spot the winged creature, surprised by the call in the midst of the silence. Something stirred behind her, and for the briefest of seconds, she ignored it, facing back towards her targets.

No . . . something was wrong. Now she felt it. The sky had slowly turned violet and gold, the cover of the early morn was fleeting; there was no more blanket of dim darkness to obscure her shadows. Her window was almost gone, so she pulled quickly on the string and raised her crouch, not caring if she rustled the brush adjacent to her. She was aware of her stance above the brush now, most likely somewhat visible to her prey. She had to do it. Here. Now. She eyed the captain closely again, now lounging against a log unsuspecting of her presence. So close.

She pulled the drawstring back further, the thin cord creaking under the substantial amount of pressure.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She could see movement on both sides of her vision as she heard thick brambles shake beneath the footfall of heavy boots. Rangers. She cursed in her native tongue, losing her focus on the captain as her eyes readjust to follow their target.

"Put the bow down — now!" the gruff voice to the left of her shouted.

She couldn't put it down — she had to follow through. Her grip tightened around the leather cord wrapped around the wood, turning her knuckles white. Pride inhibits her from complying; a thirst for glory and dignity. She had come thus far to avenge her sister, and nothing would stand in her way. She was going to fire, even if it meant death.

"I said, 'Put it down'!" the Man roared behind her.

This was between her and the Steward's son.

Her umber eyes closed as she deeply inhaled the earthy scent of Ithilien. She whispered silent prayers to the Great Eye; her brain not registering the thundering screams of the Ranger that tried to subdue her.

For Tavia. For Harad.

Instinct took over as she regained her adrenaline. Time slowed down as she opened her eyes and locked eyes with the captain, who now stared at her with a peaceful, yet mischievous visage. A thin smirk covered his lips. She wanted to watch him die. Her heart cried out, thinking for her, as nimble fingers released her grip on the arrow.

At the same time, a sharp pain seared in her temples, and she could feel herself falling. She could not see where the arrow had gone, but a piercing cry filled the dry air — unsure if she herself was screaming or the arrow had found its mark.

The Southron woman was on her back, a thick, sticky substance rolled down her forehead. She lifted her hand to her face, her vision fading in and out as she touched her finger to the blood dripping down her cheek. As she lay on the ground, she attempted to reach for her scimitar on her hip, or her dagger on her boot, but to no avail. Her head was throbbing and heavy and it felt impossible to lift. Dirt and sand crunched beneath boots behind her head, drawing closer to her position.

Two rangers stood above her, their dark sage cloaks billowed with another sudden chill wind. Their faces looked stern, and their eyes were narrowed thinly down at her. One was dark of hair, with a short crop; the other had thin wisps of dark blonde that fell above his brow. A third face appeared, his nose and mouth covered by a tanned mask, but his eyes looked incredibly familiar. She blinked harshly to focus her vision.

It was the captain.

"Bind her hands," he commanded.

The two rangers kneeled to her level, hauling her up by her shoulders, as the captain stood facing her. She furrowed her eyebrows, balling her fists to fight the Men who now had the upper hand. The pounding in her head was getting louder, and she could feel the blood drip down her chin now. One of the Men grunted as she threw her hand at his face. The captain stepped forward, grasping her wrists to gain control. She narrowed her eyes at him as he pulled out a rope from his belt with his free hand, as she struggled to fight back. He quickly replaced his hand with a knot, looping the rope over itself many times and around her tightly.

She had never felt so powerless.

He motioned with his head to one of the Men, and a woven sack was forcefully pulled over her head. Her strength sank out of her with every breath she took as they lifted her up from the rocky ground. They spoke in voices she could not understand, no matter how hard she tried. She thought of her sister and brother — how she had disappointed them both. Her mission had failed. She blinked heavily until she couldn't take it anymore, and Samira of Harad closed her eyes, with no intent of ever opening them again.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES.
eeeeeek!! this was so much fun to rewrite. . . been working on this for a while, so hope that y'all enjoy!! thank you so much for reading!!

xoxo,
mar