Strangeness and Charm

The scent reached her before the sound did. Blood. It mingled with the smell of pine and oak and maple and conifers, blended with hare and deer and squirrel and sparrow; seeped through the dormant flowers. The faster she went, the stronger the smell became: the familiar metal-and-sweetness that always accompanied manflesh. Wind pushed back her obsidian black fur, bits of dirt kicking up as her paws crashed against the forest floor. The trees began to thin as she drew closer to the river’s edge, the place where a home had once stood. It left behind nothing but a bare place in the dirt that someone had likely thought to be a good place to rest for the night.

He is a fool, she thought, swerving in between the ancient tree trunks. The ones who come this way always are. The Drúadan forest was, for the most part, spared any visitors. Occasionally a few weary travelers would find themselves on the edge of the wood and journey inward a short distance for fresh water, but rarely did any ever venture this far in. Rarely any people, at least. In the recent years there had been a notable increase in the sighting of orcs and other unsavoury creatures. She did her best to keep them out, but it was a very large forest and she was just one person.

Lying between Edoras and Minas Tirith, it would have been safe to assume some form of patrol would take place along the White Mountains. This was not the case. Part of her liked it that way; she wanted the woods to herself after all. Though it would spare her the trouble of running the woods each day to make sure her homeland was safe. To make sure she would not wake in the middle of the night to a raid from a host of orcs. Though she was much larger than the average wolf, there was only so much that could be done when outnumbered.

And yet there she was, rushing to the aid of whatever foolish traveler decided to get himself lost and injured. It wasn’t her responsibility, and yet a part of her always felt the need to help. Perhaps it had been the massacre, perhaps it was just stupidity. Whatever the reason, it trumped her suspicion of outsiders and her weariness of revealing herself. After all, when an animal—be it man or beast—is injured and scared, it is more likely than not to lash out. Yet still I run towards the smell, like a mother chasing after a crying child. These Southron men will be the death of me, one day.

At the top of a small hill she paused, hot breath misting in the cold air before her. There was another scent there, a much more dangerous one. It was denser than the smell of human and therefore didn’t waft up the mountainside, but now it stood as pungent as ever. Wargs. A pack of them. That was the cause of the blood, then. Below her was the small river, and not far beyond it she could hear the sound of blades and arrows and the bellowing war cries men so loved to unleash. They’ll call all the wargs in Middle Earth with that racket.

With a deep breath she hurdled down the hill, leaping over rocks and dodging the low-hanging branches that reached out towards her. She found the camp soon enough. It was a small group of men—five or six—all armoured and armed fiercely. Two wargs lay dead or dying on the ground, but there were far more still circling, attacking. She drew to the edge of the clearing, studying the environment quickly to choose her course of action. Soon enough, though, it was chosen for her: a warg charged the man nearest to her and sank its teeth into his forearm. The vambraces of Gondorian build were strong, but so were the jaws of a hungry warg.

Without hesitation she barreled towards the warg, grabbing hold of his back leg and ripping him away from the man with one jerk of her jaw. The warg cried out but turned instantly for vengeance, to which she allowed an attempt. It dove at her in the same erratic way that its orc masters moved and she easily moved aside, knocking it to the ground and ripping out its throat. She could hear the men continuing to fight, although one called out a name. Faramir.

The men were good fighters; that much they made clear. They took down wargs efficiently enough, but they were not hunters. They could not think as the beasts did, only as men did. So when they slayed the last one they could see and thought to take a breath, it fell to her to show them they were wrong. Most of them had caught sight of her and were evaluating what to do with a wolf half the height of them; wholly blind to the threat that still loomed. She turned her back to them, standing as a barrier between the two remaining wargs that edged into the clearing.

She arched her back and bared her teeth, releasing a fearsome growl that made the smaller of the two reconsider. The larger one though—the alpha of the group—looked right past her to the men he wished to feast on. She stepped forward, howling at them both in hopes to make them flee; but she knew they would not abandon their cause, not even with so many of their kin slain before them. The larger would be her target, and if she was lucky the smaller would flee when its leader was dead.

It studied her for a moment before leaping forward. She met it mid-air and they collided to the ground, a whirlwind of teeth and claws and fur. She felt the pain in several spots and its teeth sunk into her, but it was just as stupid as the rest of its kind. All that evil, all that madness, all that power—and no wits with which to rule them. With a distracting bite to its flank, she seized the moment that it turned to retaliate to claw at its eyes. The thing whelped and she pinned it down, sinking her teeth deep into its neck. Hot black blood rushed to meet her, soaking her nose and mouth. She kept a hold of the thing until it stopped twitching, at which point she looked up to the smaller warg. It cried quietly in submission, meaning to back away, when an arrow pierced its head.

After heaving a few breaths in, she turned her attention to the wounded man, the one they called Faramir. She padded towards him but an arrow went flying past before she could get too close. The same one who yelled before called for the man to stop.

“Did you not see what it did?” He was taller than all the others, with a fair and noble face, light-haired and grey-eyed. His garments were rich, his cloak lined with fur and a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set. The other men all looked to him; a leader. “If it wished to kill us it would have. There are stories of a wolf in the woods that aids lost wanderers. Perhaps we have found ourselves a legend.”

“Or perhaps we have found a hungry wolf who means to make off with Faramir as dinner.” One of the others offered.

She huffed at him before getting onto her hind legs and stretching backwards. As she did, the black fur gave way to long black hair and light skin, the snout receding to lips and a small nose, the golden eyes shrinking to grey. The woman that stood before them was clad in furs and treated leather pants with thick boots to warm her feet. The men looked on with wide eyes and she left them to their puzzlement, moving at last to the wounded man’s side and kneeling.

“Your arm is badly wounded.” She said simply, gingerly inspecting it as he stared at her. From her side she took a small knife, cutting a band of cloth from her undershirt and wrapping it tightly around his injuries. After, she got to her feet and helped him up. “You would do well to return to your city with haste. Left too long, it will fester and likely need removing lest you should want to greet death.”
Without another word she turned to leave, marching into the wood. The wargs would need to be burned, but it would need to wait until first light. After dawn, the dangerous creatures of the night slinked back into their caves and crevices. Only then would it be safe.

“Wait!” The leader called out, moving quickly towards her. She hesitated, taking the defensive position due to his speed, but he slowed and stopped a fair distance from her. “We are half a day’s journey from Minas Tirith, and we have yet to find a path through these woods.”

“Follow the river.” She took a step back from him, as if the small change in distance would protect her from the burning desire to help. Kindness can kill, I have learned my lesson. Again she turned to leave. “It will lead you to the edge of the forest.”

“Please!” He begged, rooting her to the spot. “Will you not help him?”

She studied the desperation on his face. The men stood idly behind him and the whole forest seemed to wait for her word. Was it just to blame all the men for the deeds of one? She could not even recall if he was of Gondorian descent. He wore no sigil upon his clothes, nor did he boast any armor. She had long lost the ability to tell Rohirrim from Gondorian from Arnorians from the ones who dwelled in Umbar. I remember the fear well enough, though. I remember being certain he would take me before killing me. Had I not slipped into a wolfskin…

“Please.” He said once more, sheathing his sword. “You have my word, no harm will come to you.”

She pondered his words but focused more on the man himself. He looked honest enough, yet so did the other man. Later she recalled the anxious feeling in her stomach as she’d led the man back to her home, but the feeling was not there with this man. He seemed to genuinely care for his injured comrade and clearly had a handle on the actions of the others. She supposed if worst came to worse, she could take the skin of a mouse and flee from them all. Find another forest to call my own. Perhaps even return to the borders of Greenwood where Beorn might still reside.

“Move quickly and quietly.” She instructed them and waited only for the leader to nod to his other men before marching across the river.

It was small enough, but once it left the forest it merged with the Celos river and eventually the Anduin, which was no small feat to cross. The waters of the Anduin emptied into the Bay of Belfalas, surrounding the Isle of Tolfalas. She had considered making her home there for a while but decided the harvest would be too unpredictable and help too far away if ever necessary.

The men seemed to have wholly forgotten the part of being quiet. They stomped through the woods breathing heavily and snapping every twig they could. Small wonder. They are soldiers, these ones. They only know how to ride steeds and march into battles, which are never quiet affairs. She considered doubling back to cover their scent, but a warg pack as big as they encountered was not like to have a rival group close by.

Something did make her stop, though, and as soon as she did the leader went on high alert. He asked her what it was, scanning the landscape for some hint of danger. She looked past him to the last one of the group. He shifted nervously as she slowly walked towards him. From the tree behind him she pulled off a small piece of cloth that had been cut from his tunic. A marker. She held it up to her nose to get the scent before recalling she was in human form.

“How many others did you leave along the trail?” She asked in a low voice. He looked between her and his group, so she drew closer to him.

“Just the one.” He answered in the calmest voice he could muster. She raised her eyebrows at him and repeated the question. After a moment of silence and a nod from the leader he succumbed. “Four.”

“Wait here.” She commanded, shifting to the wolf and disappearing into the night in search of the others. They were easy enough to find, and when they had all been collected she threw them into the river. Only then did she return to the now anxious bunch of men. “If I wished for you to find my home again, I would have given you a map.”

After that she pushed them even harder, verging on making them run to keep up with her. It was only the injured one’s pained breath that found her sympathy once more. They made it to the top of the hill and looked down onto the clearing, her small home standing amidst a field of wildflowers and crabgrass. Smoke rose from the chimney into the path of the moon, the white globe shedding minimal light on the small garden and stable beside her home.

When they approached the cabin the few animals in the stable stirred, backing away from the sight of the strangers. She said a phrase to them in a language the men did not understand, and the animals calmed. Inside they found a warm hearth and a quaint abode. There was only one door besides the entrance and everything save a bed seemed to be in the main chamber. The skin-walker instructed the injured one to sit at the table and remove his armor.

By the time he was ready so was she. A collection of unmarked glass and clay jars littered the table, along with a small needle and black thread. She sat beside the man and immediately washed away the blood. When the area was clear, the cloth went into one of the jars and she dabbed at all the fang marks with something that smelled pleasant but appeared to burn.

“There is ale in a barrel beneath the window. I’ve only two mugs but there are bowls on the shelf. If you require food there are stores in the cellar.”

“Our thanks, my lady.” One of them said as they dispersed. The leader sat across from the woman and watched somewhat anxiously as she worked. Different herbs and liquids, most of which the leader couldn’t even dream of identifying, were crushed into a fine paste and lathered into the smaller of the wounds. She stitched the larger ones before covering them in a paste as well. When it was finished she wrapped the arm in clean bandages and instructed him not to remove them until he reached a healer.

“It seems I owe you an arm.” He joked. He has an innocent smile, she thought. There is no evil in this one. Not even if he tried.

“Have your lord father cast her one in gold!” One of the men suggested, tilting the bowl back and spilling its contents into his throat. They will lose their wits even quicker with the potency of that ale.

“I have no use for gold.” She remarked before setting to return the jars to their proper place. When she finished the leader cleared his throat.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor. This is my brother, Faramir, and my men: Beregond son of Baranor, Barahir son of Bregor, and Eregion son of Eriador.”

Eregion, the suspicious one. She nodded to the leader and pulled a series of furs and blankets from her stores, laying them out on the floor and welcoming the men to their choice. Without another word she left the cabin, becoming the wolf and scouring the edges of the clearing for any scent of wargs.

She had difficulty remembering any history of Middle Earth. It was near impossible for her to make sense of all the kings and lords and sons of sons. She had spent too little time amongst people, least of all men. Whether or not Denethor was a king or a lord she could not say. All she was certain of was that the lordling sons of his seemed to be decent men. Their followers, though…

On a rock at the outskirt of the meadow she sat, ears and nose and eyes searching for any imminent danger the scent of man flesh may have brought. For the moment, the forest was just as quiet and drowsy as it should have been. Save for the voices booming from her cabin. Even from the rock, she could hear them discussing her.

“…A sorceress. I swear it, lads, I can smell a witch a thousand leagues away.” Eregion said in an attempt at a quiet voice. “She may have poisoned you, Lord Faramir. She may have poisoned all of us. Might be she needs humans for a sacrifice of some sort!”

“Enough with your old wives tales, Eregion. She is no sorceress.” Beregond said dismissively. “If she was, she would have turned you into a sow for all the wits you have about you tonight. Sorceress. Do you not heed the stories of the watchmen?”

“The watchmen from Eilenach, the third beacon hill?” Faramir asked inquisitively.

“Aye. There’s been more than one man who speaks of the Maiden of the Forest. Give them enough ale and they’ll tell you. A maiden, fair-faced and of few words. It is said she can sense a man’s deeds: aiding those who are good and slaying those who are evil. Luthamir himself swore he would not rest until he looked upon her face once more.”

“Luthamir is half-mad, Beregond.” Barahir laughed as one of the others belched. “He told me a fortnight ago that a Faerie came into his bedchambers and stole his boots. Turns out he’d only left them beneath his bed.”

“’Tis not only Luthamir, my friend. I have heard the same tale, more or less, from at least seven others, not only from Gondor.”

“It seems the Wolf and the Maiden are one.” Faramir said with wonder. She slipped off the wolf skin and walked over to the stables in her true form. “At least one good thing has come from this quest.”

“You should all get some rest. We have a journey ahead of us still, and our host needn’t be bothered by us longer than needed.” Boromir said calmly. The chattering stopped after that and the men settled down, all save the leader. She listened as he opened the door and stepped into the night with a heavy sigh.

She sat on a small wooden stool with a small goat nuzzled in her lap. Her hands glided down its head and back repeatedly until it fell into a slumber. As it dozed, the man drew close with caution.

“Am I intruding?” He asked in a gentle voice. She shook her head and pointed inside the stables where another stool was. The large circular shield he carried leaned against the stable wall as he sat across from her, taking in the sight of the place. “You made all of this yourself?”

“I had help. What are you seeking in these lands?”

“My father sent us out to find the Wild Men of the Mountains and ask if they will fight for us in return for food and weapons. The orcs of Mordor grow bolder by the day. There was a road here once, created by the Stonehouse-Folk…”

“That road has been forgotten by all save the Wild Men. You would wander around for months before finding it—these woods are prone to change.” The little goat stirred in her lap and she soothed it with soft words before looking up at the man. “Your plight is fruitless, though. The Wild Men have no need of your weapons nor your food. They grow bitterer every day and have come to loathe the race of Men. It is like that they will chase you from their lands with rusty axes and blazing branches.”

“You are certain of this?” Boromir asked apprehensively, brow furrowing at the notion of a failed quest. “There will be no swaying them?”

“If you wish it I will take you to the forgotten road and you may ask them yourself. You came here on horseback yet I found your group alone. Were they slain by the wargs?”

“I…” The man was jarred by her sporadic speech. “They were spooked by them when we were attacked and ran off into the woods.”

“At first light I will have your horses waiting. Then you must leave.” She spoke bluntly, but the man took no offence. The woman had grown far too accustomed to the way that animals spoke and the occasional harsh ramblings of a wild man. It had been many moons since she conversed with civilized men. “Your men call you lord, is your father a king?”

“King?” He was taken aback by the proposal, wholly shocked at her lack of knowledge concerning the White City. “No, my father is the steward. There have been no kings in Gondor for a very long time.”
The woman watched him carefully, trying to understand the sadness in his voice. It was so strange to her, seeing all these men so attached to their cities and realms and histories. She had never known any of it so it all just seemed pointless. But it clearly meant a great deal to this man. He sat with the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet there was kindness in him. A good and honourable nature; strength and bravery. She admired these qualities, for they reminded her of ghosts she’d once known.

“May I ask your name, my lady?” The man shifted in the seat and the noise woke the sleeping animal in her lap. It jumped off and went into the stable, settling in with its kin. The woman studied him for a moment, hesitantly complying.

“Faenorë.” It felt almost foreign, saying her name. She had not uttered it in the common tongue for years. And yet it came easily, telling it to this steward’s son. All the other Gondorians and Wild Men and the travellers in between, they were always trying to decipher her or coax her to follow them to their homeland. Always a mystery. Yet this one did not dig, merely admired. She found herself spilling out stories that had never left her lips before, and did not bother to stop.

“Do you know of the skin-walkers? A race of men and women gifted with the ability to merge with the natural world in impossible ways. They could take the form of any beast they wished—sometimes even other people—as easily as pulling on a cloak. They made their homes amongst the Greenwood and the Misty Mountains, a community closer than ever any before…”

“What happened to them?” Boromir asked, leaning forward and hanging on her every word. His speech spurred her from her ramblings and she drew back into herself, pulling at the fur on her jacket.

“Orcs happened. They massacred almost all of us. My parents were both slain before my eyes. I was ten at the time, so one of the adults took me in. Beorn his name was.” She stood abruptly after that, waking some of the animals as she put the stool back in the stables. “You need to rest, Boromir son of Denethor. You’ve a long journey ahead of you.”

Faenorë became a wolf once more and disappeared into the trees. While the men of Gondor slept she searched for the lost horses, one by one herding them back to the cabin. The cool night air gave way to the fresh breath of dawn as the sun began to wake the woods. By the time she fastened a saddle onto her own horses the men had woken and eaten modest meals. They filtered outside and awaited her word.

“One of you rode a brown stallion with a black mane and white markings upon its face.” She watched the men all look to their leader. “It was dead when I found it. You may take Asta, but I will return for her one day. If she refuses to go into a place there is likely danger afoot. Trust her senses over yours, Lord Boromir.”

He nodded and thanked her as they all mounted. She still mistrusted the one called Eregion, and so took care to lead them through the thickest parts of the wood where they could not hope to find the path nor her home again. They came onto the forgotten path just as the sun peaked over the trees.

“Here is where I leave you.” She turned away after that and meant to ride off but Boromir called her back. He told the others to go, that he would follow behind soon after. Faramir thanked Faenorë earnestly before joining the others, arm hanging in a sling. Boromir led Asta over to her and gave a small smile.

“I do not doubt without you Faramir would have lost an arm, if we had survived the wargs. Gondor owes you a debt and it shall not be forgotten. You have my most honest thanks, my lady.”

He carefully reached out and took her bare hand in his gloved one, bringing his lips to the back of it before releasing her. She sat frozen on the horse as he smiled, bowed, and turned away from her. A feeling crept into her chest that she vaguely remembered from a distant dream, and she let it fester until the steward’s son was out of sight. Then she turned the horse swiftly and buried it deep within her core, never to consider it again.