Song of the Marchwarden - A Deathless Death

Chapter 4 - Curse the Valar

You awoke stiff, sore, and heavy. Bodies were not this difficult to control in Valinor. You stood, burdened by the weight of existing on this plane and looked around you. Where were you? You looked south and you saw mountains. Easterly was what looked like Minas Tirith. Westerly was Helm's Deep. North easterly you eye was drawn to Dagorlad. Your Fëa shuddered.

North to Lorien you will go. You assume elves still reside there. You knew nothing of how middle earth was, now. You were brought forth to the Valar and instructed you would be in your previous Hröa and go back. For what exactly, they were less forthcoming. But this is how you found yourself naked, weaponless and in the middle of nowhere.

First job was finding some clothes. How on earth you were supposed to do that, you had no idea. You stood and listened. Voices on the wind. Too loud for the voices of elves, not loud enough for the voices of dwarves. You stood still, barely breathing. Trying to make out the voices, you heard laughter. Finally, you could make out voices. Westron whispered on the wind. Definitely the tongue of men, you mused.

You turned to see if you could place where the voices were coming from, and there you saw the Easterlings. Faces and heads covered, their dark eyes glinted in time with their weapons in the light. Upon emaciated horses they rode. You knew these were no friends, but with no other choice in sight, you stood and waited as they approached.

You heard the scraping of metal as knives and swords were unsheathed. Weaponless, you had no choice but to turn around as they dismounted.

What you supposed was the leader, stepped forward and eyed you up and down. Hungrily and lasciviously licking his lips. "Why does a fair maiden such as yourself stand here free, like a gift from the Gods?" He chuckled and many of the men he was with snickered. You rolled your eyes, internally cursing the Valar for placing you right here.

"I only look for clothes and a steed. I look to travel north."

The leader's eyes smirked as he realised from your accented Westron, you were indeed not of men.

"I am Balfuç. My men will clothe you and feed you. We will set up camp here, tonight!"

The men looked at each other, questioning their leaders' sense. All this for only a woman? He huddled them round and spoke in a language you knew not.

"She is I suspect, Elven. And a powerful one at that. If she is who I think she is, we will be paid handsomely, and perhaps we can garner some of her power for ourselves. Now, clothe her and feed her. When I give the word, blindfold her, and tie her up. She may be strong, but she is weaponless. And there are more of us than her." He did not want to disclose to the others that he thought he knew who you were, in fear of them ousting him and taking you themselves to Saruman for a richer reward. He knew not why Saruman wanted your or your blood, and he did not care. HE cared only for garnering favour from the wizard, and therefore favour from Sauron. The gold coins would not hurt, either.

A man came forward and gave you clothes, a simple grey tunic with black leggings and a leather belt. They were clearly for men, but you were grateful to be covered up and feel less vulnerable. As they set up fire and food, you sat knowing in your heart of hearts that this is wrong. Your gut feelings were rarely wrong. However, you sat and ate quietly.

You observed Balfuç as he busied himself with with checking the horses saddle bags were secure. Strange for a leader to do such duties, you thought. You heard him click his tongue and immediately there were ten men behind you, and ten men in front. Achingly weaponless, you knew you must concede, and hopefully mask your strength for a time you may escape. Before you had time to think further, you had a cloth bag over your face, and your hands and feet were bound by rope. The bag on your face was rough on your skin, smelled vile. Sour.