So, wow. I have 221 reviews and counting. I feel awesome, and teary-eyed! And as for this story, I'm proud of how much accuracy I continue to have. Sometimes I really struggle to think of fancy words for Middle-Earth people. Damn their eloquent speech... Anyway, there will be a full explanation of Cynthia in this chapter, making this probably the longest chapter I've written. Not kidding. I've had the hardest time writing it, mainly because my inspiration was being especially inconsistent. I apologize for making it appear as though I abandoned this tale, but trust me: I sure as hell haven't! If you guys wanna' read some straight Lord of the Rings, I just began this epic-length story titled Saddlebags Full of Books. Read it if so interested. Enjoy, read, and give me detailed reviews on Stark's continued adventure! I love them. Gimme.

Edit: Revised December 2018

Chapter Six: Arrival at Osgiliath & The New Rapture

"If she was on level with Margaret Carter, Hollister must have been a high-ranking agent," commented Natasha.

"She was a mutant," recalled Rogers, "Coulson said to me once her powers were similar to another mutant named Wolfsbane. I think he said something about the X-Men when he was explaining. Can't remember perfectly."

"Heh, no wonder Cynthia made an impression on you. I feel bad without even knowing her," said Barton.

Conversation deviated from there, and the super soldier found himself unable to understand. Steve bowed his head, taking an absent bite of his food. And Stark has joined the number of the lost, beside Colonel Philips, Bucky, Jones, Erskine, Howard, Cynthia… yet another friend I'm without.

If only the blonde-haired man knew that the genius still yet lived, and could foresee the coming enemy.

"I cannot believe you, Angbor! How thick is your damned head to agree to the Steward-son's passing request?!"

Stark nearly flinched at the rage held in Kelda's tone. Truth be told, the engineer might have earned it.

"Kelds," Tony sighed, grabbing yet another handful of tools in his hands to be sorted into the crates lying about the forge, "Please don't start this up again."

"Do not shove me aside, Smith! I want to know what madness possessed you to travel to the very front of the Enemy."

"Obligation."

"As if I will believe that, Angbor. That is 'bullshit,' as you like to say."

"No really, I have to go out there, Kelda. The Steward's boys are going to be stuck in some serious shit if I don't go."

The young woman appeared affronted. "You, of all the able-bodied men in Gondor, I would not expect to be obligated to serve. My husband? Fine, I will yield to that. I've always known his heart was held by the people of the City than the gates he stares out from. But you, Smith? Why? Is it because of your past, which I have very little knowledge of? Or is it some other irrational reason?"

It was none of those reasons Tony Stark was going to Osgiliath, or at least they weren't the primary ones.

Truth be told, a number of factors over the last few days had drawn him to make this decision. After Faramir left four days ago, finding a greater friendship in the smithy than he'd expected, Stark had literally thrown himself into a mental fit. The genius had immediately sought out the automaton, and after grilling the AI's impressive memory banks for Lord of the Rings facts, and came to realize there was a reason behind his foreboding feelings toward Osgiliath. On June 20th, TA 3018, Sauron's mobs of orcs were going to overtake the eastern banks and slaughter an entire garrison of Gondorian soldiers (an equivalent to a large Civil War cavalry on foot) with only four survivors. Which, thankfully, would include the Steward-sons. Tony's concern, however, was warranted. He was in Arda, when before, the literary canon didn't ever have any wacky but awesome engineers such as himself. The man didn't like to believe he'd be stuck in Lord of the Rings land forever, that there would be a miraculous solution to whisk him back to his Tower.

But realistically? Stark didn't have Bruce with him, and it took him more than a couple of long nights in the forge's basement to even assemble the parts needed to improve his suit. With those facts in mind, how the hell was he going to build a device to open an Einstein-Rosen bridge that Dr. Foster dreamed of generating? The not-so-billionaire's presence in this world could have very well caused a ripple effect, fucking up the storyline and quite possibly dooming it to failure. What was the actual theory called? Butterfly something? Tony Stark had a bad feeling in his gut that he was that damn butterfly. He'd already met two technically main characters.

So to summarize it all, Anthony "Angbor" Stark had foreknowledge of what was to come and he'd be damned to motherfucking hell on Earth if some miraculous deviation screwed with the overall outcome the books deliver. And, his egotistical side totally wanted to get in on some action. The man loved showing off his toys. Thus, Tony sprinted to the barracks, negotiated with Faramir (who actually planned on asking a favor of him already), and struck a deal to go to Osgiliath. Both men could be harshly logical when time required it, and Stark made sure the young Steward-son was aware of the advantages the genius' presence in Osgiliath would have.

As both a blacksmith and a fighter, I'd be able to lend a hand on two different fronts. If any of your men need repairs in any capacity, I could be there with Jarvis and fix it in hours. Broken weapons that need reforging? Done. More arrow tips for your rangers? Done… What if you need somebody on the front, Faramir? You've never seen me in action, kid. They used to call me the Merchant of Death back home, and though I'm not really proud of it, it's accurate. I've created some dangerous shit in my life, Faramir. The orcs wouldn't stand a chance against me… Please, kid. Make the right damn choice.

Tony Stark is not one to manipulate or beg, but if the situation demands it, the genius will do so. And that's exactly what happened, with the result being a mutual agreement with the Steward-sons and himself.

The man was a flurry of constant movement after that. He'd bartered with a stableman for a well-built cart, inspected it with his esteemed engineer's eye, bought said cart, then discussed yet another purchase: a draft horse. That, obviously, was quite the dramatic affair. Kelda had been brought along, her skills as a hard-bargain merchant daughter helping Tony get reasonable prices. Just like last time, the horses seemed bizarrely magnetized to the genius. That is, all except one.

"Who's that?" pointed Stark, gesturing to a behemoth of an equine who simply stared in his direction.

"Beleg, my lord," answered the horse seller standing beside him as they moved toward the beast's stall, "One of the strongest animals of burden I offer, surprisingly swift as well, but also the most difficult. He has an intelligence that is unnatural, if I must say so."

Tony stared at the would-be beast of burden. Beleg appeared to resemble a Percheron, big heavy hooves and monstrous in proportion to a skinny, prancing mare. His coat was pure black, with only two white socks on his front legs. Those large eyes looked at the genius equally, without any nervous shifting or submissive behavior. Stark liked that.

"A smart one, huh?" spoke the engineer, ignoring the confused look of the horse seller and paying sole attention to the equine in front of him. "I bet you want to get out of this place, find some action."

Shockingly, or not so shocking to Tony, the horse bobbed its head. The superhero had a feeling this creature was one of those anomalies in the realm of Lord of the Rings. Smart like a human, beyond capable, and probably somehow associated with Mearas. Knowing his luck, this beast of burden was probably a legitimate Mearas, not just associated. The horse seller did say it had unnatural intelligence.

Without hesitation, Tony turned to the seller. "How much for him?"

The man blinked his gray eyes rapidly, mouth slightly ajar. "You wish to take this troublesome beast?"

"Well yeaaah," said Stark, drawing out his words, "Poor guy's probably sick of hanging around this place. How much do I have to pay you? And no fast ones! I have a merchant's daughter here with me to make sure you're not snatching my hard-earned money."

That poor horse trader was all too dumbfounded by Stark's personality and desire to buy Beleg for any attempt at sleight of hand to occur. He actually gave him a cheaper price, most likely eager to get rid of the wildly oversized stallion. Four pieces of silver and an armful of leather horse rigging later, Tony Stark and Kelda were walking out of the trader's stables with a monstrous black horse ambling happily along between them. The damn beast didn't even need a lead, which drew a number of curious gazes.

The genius just shrugged them off. He remembered his Tolkien trivia. You don't control a Mearas; you treated it as an equal. If you acted like it was any old draft animal, it wouldn't respect you enough to help out. Simple as that.

Thus Tony Stark found himself arguing with Kelda for the fifth time, packing what tools and materials he needed, while Beleg stood parked outside the forge chewing up a healthy pile of hay next to the sturdy cart he would eventually pull all the way to Osgiliath. Hopefully the wife of his tenant would calm down and wish him goodbye by the time he and Derufin were to leave. With a glance out the open-air window, the genius couldn't help but think of the other Avengers.

I hope they're doing something heroic while I'm busting my ass here…

"How is it, Banner? Any change yet?"

The bespectacled scientist nodded absently to the captain, fingers gliding over the surface of the tablet with an unusual swiftness. "Our white whale's coming back, Steve, ETA ten minutes and counting."

"Finally, we've got a bite," said Barton, picking at the string of his bow passively with an eager expression.

"That's not necessarily a good thing, Clint," stopped Bruce, his eyes squinting at the data flashing across his screen. Natasha appeared by his shoulder, looking at the tablet for answers despite lacking the skill to read the complex data.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Rogers.

"Remember how I said the anomaly left behind gamma radiation that behaved in such a way that it literally created a contradicting loop? The readings I'm getting now have the massive field compressing on our location. Residual radiation is literally gathering at this point, with the actual energy-spiked anomaly honing in. It's nothing like anything I've seen before…"

"Wait, our red herring can control the radiation fields?" Barton spoke aloud, "Doc, I'm no scientist, but that sounds impossible."

"Yet why doesn't this surprise me?" quipped Natasha.

"Can your machinery possibly slow the radiation down?" wondered Steve. "I agree with Hawkeye, and from what I read of your file back before we met on the Helicarrier, gamma radiation doesn't exactly affect the body is the greatest of ways."

"Not easily, Cap," responded Banner. "I'd need five minutes, but even then, it'll only give us less than two before the anomaly comes to greet us."

"Barely enough time," said Black Widow, looking to Rogers with blank eyes.

His expression was grim, turning his youthful visage of twenty-six years to something much more appropriate to his actual age. "We'll just have to do what we can."

"Angbor!"

Stark's head swiveled around madly, hearing his newly-gifted name on the air but finding it difficult to spot the source amidst the sea of armored soldiers. He heard it again, loud and happy despite the place the regiments of men were going. Eventually Tony caught sight of a waving arm, finding his landlord Derufin trying to maneuver his way to the cart the genius was driving. Beleg, with his higher-than-average intelligence, decided to stop in the middle of the road out of courtesy.

"Thanks, Bel," muttered Tony, trying not to gather an audience by talking to his overly-smart horse. Said beast just tossed his head, huffing through his nose like he was amused.

"Angbor," called Derufin, "I am glad to have seen you, friend! My wife told me you'd be traveling with us to lend your aid, but I was uncertain whether or not I would be able to find you before the regiments passed my former post."

"Well, you found me. Want a ride?" offered Stark, holding out a free hand from his place atop the cart bench.

The young guard nodded gratefully. "Yes, I would! I'd rather feel stiff from sitting than suffer sore limbs from a hard day's march."

Derufin settled amiably beside the not-so-billionaire, watching the standing crowds of women and children throwing pale flowers across the cobbled streets. Stark kept a loose hold of the reins, basically allowing Beleg to drive them through the White City. The equine was content to do so, pulling the cart effortlessly. The headpiece of the reins were barely hugging the animal's head, and the bit didn't yank uncomfortably against Beleg's jaw. It was there mainly for appearances, and the horse knew it.

In time, Derufin's attention fell to the third passenger on the cart bench, with a cloak's hood drawn over their face and rumpled clothes dressing their figure. The guard couldn't see the enigma's face.

"Who is this, Angbor?" asked the young man, gesturing across from Stark to the stranger.

"Him?" pointed Tony, aiming his index at his AI automaton outfitted in the genius' dirty laundry. The automated suit tilted its head in the guard's direction, revealing a sliver of the unpolished face of the Mark V. "This is Jarvis, an old friend of mine. He's the Jay in the Jay and Stark Metallurgy."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," added the AI.

Derufin nodded, but with a smidgen of uncertainty. Stark wasn't wholly surprised. When he spent time down in the basement, sweating over smelting work or meticulously forging metal alloys, the automaton handled work upstairs. The customers were all extremely polite to him, but when they inevitably realized his hands were metallic and his face was an unpolished mask, their faces took on an expression of mild uncertainty. Perhaps the customers thought Jarvis had some scary-ass disease? Tony saw some movie once; had a king wearing a mask and outfits that completely covered every inch of his skin. What was the title? Kingdom of Heaven? Either way, that guy was a leper, and the people here most likely assumed to themselves Jarvis was a leper too. They're in for a surprise when they learn Jarvis is actually a walking-talking-fighting suit of advanced armor, Stark thought amusedly.

It took the fresh regiments late into the afternoon to reach Osgiliath, marching at a heady pace across the rough Pelennor Fields, with little sunlight left to guide them into the ruin city. Again Derufin voiced his thanks for being allowed to ride atop the cart bench, happy he did not have to partake in the march across the Fields. Tony nodded, but was much more attentive towards the crumbling stone architecture. Jarvis quietly accessed the area.

"My detailed sweep of the general area indicates a decently-sized occupation by the Gondorians of this dead city; the western banks being the most populated. The scans encompassing the ruins across the great river are picking up signs of skirmishing. It seems the Gondorians are already deflecting the enemy on the eastern shore."

"No readable casualties?" intones Stark.

"None yet, sir. I believe your plan might yet succeed."

Tony jerked his head in affirmation, turning his head towards the bumpy, waterlogged road into the deeper parts of Osgiliath. Just what he needed to hear; evidence that his hope to make sure the general canon stays true exists by an AI's extremely severe standards.

A greeting party comprised of cloaked, leather-bound archers met the leaders of their long procession. The genius could hear the jovial meeting between Faramir and his men all the way from his place in the middle of the masses. Slowly the regiments were lead off, one by one, towards their newly designated stations. With a short whistle, Stark urged Beleg to inch forward. Both Steward-sons sat tall upon their horses, seemingly waiting for the engineer. Stark couldn't help but raise a brow in interest.

"Ah, Angbor," greeted Faramir, "Meet Madril, my second in command to the Rangers of Ithilien." The man gestured to an elder-looking fellow, dressed in a ranger's favored clothes with a quiver and bow on his back.

"Pleasure," offered Tony, nodding to him from his high place on the cart. Beleg snorted none too quietly. "This is Jarvis," pointed the genius, "My old friend who helps me in the forge. And this," he pointed to his landlord, "Is Derufin, the young man who lets me to use his dad's forge."

Derufin, completely startled by the fact he was even introduced to high-ranking officers in the Gondorian military, fumbled to bow. Jarvis easily tilted his hollow head, not worried in the least and unable to be overcome by silly things like emotions. Stark watched as the Steward-sons and Madril offered their own signs of acknowledgement.

"Derufin," spoke Boromir thoughtfully, "Your father was Mablung, was he not?"

"The same, milord."

Boromir stared at the guard moments longer, glancing between him and the genius, then nodded to himself. He departed without speaking a word, leaving Faramir and Madril behind to stand in the flooding street. The younger Steward-son sighed.

"Forgive him, Angbor. I spoke with my brother on the march here, and he struggles to reconcile with you. He will come around eventually."

"If the guy can't take a nickname and a word that refers to a baby goat, he's not prepared for the rest of my vocabulary."

Faramir chuckled fondly. "Either way, it is a pleasure to meet your friends. I was hoping to introduce you to Cynthia, but I have yet to spot her."

Stark perked up at the mention of the elusive woman. She was another reason for the superhero to hurry his cart to Osgiliath. If he could just talk to her, the engineer could possibly have a better understanding of how to return to Earth…

"Did someone say my name?"

All heads twirled sharply, eyes falling upon a lithe figure swathed in ragged breeches and a tunic, with a tired shirt of mail hanging off their shoulders. A wicked blade of distinctly elvish-make sat sheathed on their left hip, whilst an intricate foreign dagger rested on the other. The deep charcoal cloak the stranger wore hid most of the face and body from view.

A brilliant grin abruptly took over the young Steward-son's visage, and he immediately hopped from his horse to embrace the standing enigma. The dark hood fell back from the man's impact, revealing a beautiful aristocratic face with vaguely tanned flesh. Strangely enough, her hair was trimmed up to look like a crew cut, which didn't make much sense to Stark. Wouldn't chicks go for something longer? Maybe she's a dyke, he thought.

Eventually the two friends pulled away from each other, Faramir smiling fondly and the woman smirking. "It's good to see you survived your father, Faramir. I passed Boromir, and he looked more pensive than usual," the lady spoke, raising a brow at the fair-haired Gondorian.

"Indeed I did, Cynthia, though father had no lack of words to strike me with. Boromir, however, is not deep in thought because of the selfish behavior of our father." He turned towards Tony, who found himself faced with that attractive 'dyke' head-on.

"This is Angbor the Stark, though I have heard other titles which he answers to. Angbor, meet my oldest friend and guardian, Cynthia Hollister."

Upon hearing his name, the woman's brilliant hazel eyes (Holy shit, they're shiny!) widened. Her expression paled minutely, caught by a ghost from her distant past.

"S-Stark?" she exclaimed, "Are you by any chance a son of Howard Stark?" The words came tumbling from her lips, rushed.

Tony wasn't sure how to react, his countenance slightly uncomfortable. "Um, yeah?"

Cynthia stared at him a few moments more. "Bollocks," she cursed. Faramir raised a brow.

"Cynthia?"

The woman turned to the Steward-son, "Faramir, I need to speak to Sta-Angbor in private. I'm assuming you'll be relocating Ace here over in the boondocks?"

Tony felt pretty sure he was out of his depth. The chick is using forties slang, for fuck's sake!

Faramir surprised the genius by nodding with understanding, despite the confusion in his eyes at her request. "Yes. It is the safest place I could think for him to be while repairing the soldiers' armor and weapons."

"Good." The woman marched swiftly over to Beleg, grabbing him strongly by the reins. The could-be Mearas didn't dispute her, for whatever reason, instead rushing to follow wherever Cynthia lead him. Babe's got an attitude, Tony thought from his place atop the cart. Derufin clumsily hopped off seconds after, not wanting to whisked away from his commanders. Stark and Jarvis shared a look.

"I hope we do not regret this present meeting with Miss Hollister. She seems mercurial."

"Same here, buddy. Same here."

Cynthia guffawed loudly as she maneuvered their cart through the ruins. "I can hear both of you quite clearly, thank you!"

Stark made a face. Jarvis sighed with his tinny voice box. They moved along in silence for around twenty minutes until the genius couldn't contain himself.

"Are you a mutant?"

Hollister stuttered to a stop, whipping her head around to stare at him. She looked surprised, yet strangely pleased. "You know, I'm strangely happy you asked that. I haven't been called a mutant in years. But yes; I am a mutant, Stark. Who told you?"

Tony smirked, though his eyes reflected his discomfort. "Well, Faramir told me about you when he was in Minas Tirith. He described to me his childhood, how it involved you, how both sons of the Steward look up to you like a mother figure. Kinda weird if you ask me, with your height being somewhat… uh, smaller. You don't look a day older either. But what convinced me about your mutant status would be Faramir's awkward explanation of your more "furry" abilities of transformation."

She cracked a smile, but didn't show any offense at his deductions or at the fact Faramir poured out to Stark. "Well," Cynthia said, "I'm happy the boy spilled the beans on you and not anybody else." The woman took up the reins again, leading Beleg ahead.

Tony continued speaking. "What do they call you, other than your name?"

That smile still stuck to her face. Those hazel eyes looked fondly at the genius, searching his expressive visage. "The number of names I have are somewhat impressive; Ithilethiel, Mordraug… But people like us, individuals who come from other worlds, are called Wanwa."

He furrowed his brow, "Wanwa?"

"It means 'lost' in elvish, Sir."

"Ah."

Cynthia looked to Jarvis, curious. "Is that a robot?"

Stark immediately straightened, face aghast. He looked like an offended parrot. "Jarvis is not a robot! He's one of the many advanced auto-mechanized suits I've created! He's not just some fucking autoshop toy!"

Hollister laughed heartedly at the reaction she got out of him, holding her stomach. "You're just as bad as your father, Stark. I once poked fun at the Ducky Skincracker for his inventions; would have nearly throttled me right where I stood if he didn't realize I could throw him halfway across the room."

Tony stared at her, "You knew him? Personally?"

She nodded, "I have a bit of a long-winded story to tell you, Stark. When we reach the boondocks and settle you in, I'll flap my lips."

"What abou-"

"Wanwa will be included, Stark, now shut it!"

"BRUCE!" yelled Hawkeye. Angry currents of whistling wind rushed through the grass and against their bodies. The Quinjet was the only unmoving landmark in the landscape.

"I know, I know! Nearly there," bellowed back the scientist, twisting and tapping away amidst his machines. Rogers held up his arm, using his shield to protect Banner from the heavy gusts.

"Banner, we don't have anymore time!" cried Natasha, watching with wide eyes as a shapeless mass of black and eerie red rapidly blew toward their position. Dark bolts of energy charged the air, the wind howling in their ears….

"Alright, spill. How'd you end up here?"

Stark sat on a dry boulder, one leg loosely crossed over the other that dangled down, arms crossed. Jarvis stayed seated in the cart, glowing eye lenses staring emotionlessly at the lady perched atop a broken pillar. She smirked, yet took a tired, weary breath.

"If you want to know, Stark, I'm going to have to tell you my whole story; not just the good bits."

The engineer shrugged, "We got the time."

Cynthia took another breath, expression hardening. Her hazel eyes met his chocolate brown evenly. "On September 16, 1891, I was born Cynthia Agathine Hollister to Ernest and Helen Hollister. They were from Britain, wealthy aristocracy in fact, owning a number of homes in a various countries. Two homes in the United Kingdom, one in Germany, and one in Morocco. I was born in the Morocco home, and grew up there… At least, for a while.

"By the early 20th Century, Morocco suffered from a conflict of powers. Everyone of some notable import in Europe and America was attempting to gain a sphere of influence there. Berber insurrectionists were completely opposed to change, especially if it had to do with Europeans. They wanted the old ways to continue, you see. So, in 1904, my family's Moroccan home was ransacked, my parents killed to spite the British Embassy, and I was taken as a hostage. Another aristocrat, a man with the last name of Perdicaris, was also taken, along with his son.

"The entire incident terrified me, and as you probably know, terrified young mutants can come into their powers early from shock as a defense mechanism. One minute I'm tied up and mad with fear, the next I have claws instead of nails and my keeper is lying dead with his chest mauled to shreds! Said incident became a shakily-done coverup, known forever as the Perdicaris Incident, with me forgotten and the man unhappy to have been rescued.

"At age thirteen, I grew up amongst berbers, who honored me for my mutant abilities, until the future of industry finally came back to bite them. I guess you could say I suffered heavily from Stockholm syndrome, but those bandits lived by a code of honor I quite admire-"

"When are we going to get to the good stuff?" interrupted Tony.

She huffed, "I told you that I have to tell you my full story! It won't rightfully make sense if I jump from my childhood straight to the damn War!"

"Okay, okay, just keep going."

"Hmmph." She took yet another breath, picking up her tale.

"So, as you can assume, I'm much older than I appear. My mutant abilities leave me long-lived, with a decent healing factor, claws, enhanced senses, and the ability to turn into a terrifyingly large black wolf. When I left the berbers, my name had ironically become The Favorable Wolf in Moroccan. Despite that, I knew I could not get exceptionally far in the Western world as a young adult woman with a Moroccan name. So, taking up my birth name, I returned to British society. My inheritance was reclaimed with a bit of debate, but eventually I ended up back in London. I sold the home in Germany, sold the ruined plot in Morocco, and consolidated everything to the United Kingdom. The Hollister home in London went from old Victorian to half Modern-half Oriental. Fearing the ridicule my mutant powers would garner, I went to great lengths for my status amongst the old names of aristocracy to fade into hearsay."

"So, following the common pattern of every mutant ever, you went underground," Stark surmised.

She nodded, "I did. I was afraid the Western world wouldn't be as forgiving or as comfortable with the idea of a shape-shifting human as bands of mildly superstitious Moroccan berbers were. I stayed under the radar for a long time. That is, until the 1930s. For whatever reason, the emergence of mutants became a happening thing at the time. I made plenty of mutant friends by that point, and it was damn swell."

"But..."

"But," Cynthia said, "The second war was coming around. I knew some good mutants in Germany, and the idea of any of them being stuck in concentration camps as Nazi lab rats made me red-faced. It was the first time I disclosed my full history, and probably the only time it actually helped me get anywhere. The British army desperately needed special operatives, and I was a prime candidate with my abilities and my unique life story. That's how I met Margaret Carter, or Peggy as most called her. We were both extremely independent women, and swiftly became an inseparable pair; partners really. Project Rebirth came around somewhere in there-"

"Wait, Project Rebirth? You knew Rogers?!" exclaimed Tony.

The lady's brow furrowed, "Why of course! What do you think we were doing there, waiting tables? It was our job to oversee the potential candidates for Erskine's serum. Peggy ended up falling hard for Steven you know, and I may or may not have danced with his friend James Barnes more than once. Anyway, you probably know the rest of this part of the story. Rogers became Captain America, Peggy and I helped the Commandos when we could, I killed Nazis, and SSR fought Hydra."

Stark nodded. His father drilled these facts into his brain as a kid.

A heavy sigh escaped Cynthia. "It happened on one of the missions. Captain and the Commandos were to liberate this Germanic town being used as a temporary base of operations by the enemy. Horrifying shit there too," she said thickly. "The town was mostly populated by Jews, and the poor bastards were being strung up and used for target practice by the Germans not toting around Red Skull's special guns. I took great pleasure in tearing the bodies of those Nazi soldiers apart with my claws for that. Cap had been extremely wary of me after I butchered them, not that I couldn't blame him. We had nearly cleaned house when the squeaky floorboards under my feet abruptly exploded."

Tony's face became stone, paling slightly. The hints of parallelism were starting to make the genius disconcerted. "What happened next?"

"The pain swallowed me up. When I opened my eyes, my uniform was barely passable and my handgun partially melted; the barrel was indirectly welded closed. I was sitting on the cold floor of Barad-Dur, surrounded by orcs, with Sauron himself standing before me in all his black-armored terror. Not that I knew who he was really at that point; I mentally reverted back to a time when I was but a child kidnapped by scary berber insurrectionists."

"What? Sauron, Barad-Dur? Why-"

"Let me continue," she insisted. Stark silenced.

"Five feet away from where I sat terrified, an Allied American soldier about eighteen years old was lying dead in a pool of his own blood with a orc dagger in his spine. His uniform looked as singed as mine, and his rifle just as useless as my former handgun. Seven feet behind me, mutilated and laying there at an unnatural angle, was a child dressed in the striped clothes concentration camps made the Jews wear. I had no idea what was truly going on, but I could deduce from the corpses around me that the armored being before me had no qualms killing children. When I looked back at Sauron, he did the unexpected: he began speaking to me."

"NATASHA, LOOK OUT!"

The Russian went limp out of instinct, dropping to the ground and flattening herself against the earth. Crackling energy sizzled over her, exactly where she had stood previously. The black mass was upon them.

An arrow flew into the bizarre dark cloud, lighting up its center with an unexpected explosion. A booming roar echoed in the air, leaving the Avengers to claw at their ears from the immense volume of the shriek. Banner and Rogers abandoned the machinery, dashing toward Widow and Barton.

"Don't do that again, Clint! We don't know what that thing is capable of!" cried Bruce over the howl of turbulent gusts.

"But it stopped!" was the response from the archer.

"For now!" retorted the Captain, "None of us know how long it can last! We need to MOVE!"

"WHERE, STEVE?! WHERE THE FUCK CAN WE GO?!"

"He started off gloating to his orcs, pointing his jagged armored hand at me triumphantly. Those disgusting tar-skinned monsters cackled like a gaggle of witches, dementedly gleeful at their master's accomplishment. In time, Sauron spun a lengthy monologue. He used some taboo dark ritual, one that somehow allowed him to summon beings from various places "beyond the veil." Apparently all his previous attempts had failed, and his latest try resulted in that child, soldier, and me. Sauron had seen the child as something mortal, weak, and altogether too young to be of use to him. He let his orcs kill the kid. When the soldier was summoned, he was screaming. I assumed the young American was a new recruit, and his inexperience and terror made him useless in Sauron's mind. He died next. So, it was me. I had promise, or so he said.

"The Dark Lord spoke directly to me then. Join me, he had rasped. Glory and power await thee. Like hell I was going to do that. So I lashed out."

"We make for the quinjet! You and Nat can fly us out of here, somewhere away from any land masses! Then we take this thing down!"

"You're fucking INSANE, you know that, Steve!?"

In the face of mortal peril, Rogers grinned. "Not insane, just reckless!"

"If we survive this, I'm requesting a psych evaluation from Fury for you!"

"Whatever you say, Clint!"

"You… You attacked Sauron?" questioned Tony, shocked.

Cynthia smirked with pride. "Damn right I did! I transformed completely into my humongous wolf form, which might I add is about as big as the finest of stable horses, and took a few swell bites of his armor with me. The prat was downright squealing, and his orcs looked ready to drop like flies from heat stroke. I fought my entire way out, down who knows how many stairs, until I was galloping out of the tower straight towards the Black Gates of Mordor. I had never been more thankful about being a mutant than that day.

"Word of that somehow managed to spread to the Last Alliance, and when I stumbled into their midst, I was hailed as Minulialwen, meaning the Dawn. I fought in another War, one that seemed much simpler compared to the modern war that I had fought beside Rogers. During the conflict, I learned a lot about this world, and quickly carved out a place for myself in their society. We defeated the Deciever, Isildur took the throne, and peace reigned."

"Yet I feel there's another "but" in there somewhere," commented Stark.

"Unfortunately," she agreed. "I found others like us, people from other worlds, despite what Sauron had said about failed attempts. They'd worked; it was just that these people didn't land where he hoped they would. Elves who knew of their existence called them Wanwa, the Lost, because they couldn't return to their home; holding no specific societal place in Middle-Earth. Most of them died out in a few years because of illness and the commonplace fighting that goes on here. No one else has been dropped here… except you."

Four silhouettes broke into a dead sprint across the widespread meadow. The whistling wind around them was charged with energy, nipping at bare skin like an unfathomable itch. Heavy pants could be barely heard over the whipping air and the roaring of the dark mass overhead. The pitch soon morphed from agony to furious anger, with molten light crackling inside the charcoal smog.

The distance between the silhouettes and the parked Quinjet narrowed, but not as swiftly as one would desire. Bruce stumbled, lungs contracted, glasses nearly falling from his nose. Hawkeye did not deem the scientist's speed as an acceptable pace, grabbing the man bodily and almost dragging him along. Natasha never stalled, never looked back, and never stumbled. She yelled, however, urging her teammates on with a mercurial mix of kind adjectives and unforgiving colorful metaphors.

Last but not least, Steve Rogers held up the rear. His head constantly swiveled between his companions and the ominous smoke rumbling with searing energy. Were the trio ahead of him running fast enough? Would they make it? Did the Avengers have any hope of stopping the nameless anomaly that seemed hellbent on killing them? Questions such as that boggled around in the captain's skull fervently. Part of him wished Thor was there with them.

The super soldier knew he could outrun his friends easily. But, who would watch their backs? Banner was a moving target when not Hulked-out, Clint had perfect aim so long as his position wasn't compromised, and Widow couldn't fight a threat that wasn't solid. Steve, on the other hand, had his shield. If anything, he would serve as the lightning rod to the infuriated anomaly's attacks. With the soldier's bizarre luck, he'd survive.

If only he knew what the cloud was truly after, as the wind strengthened further and the black licked at Rogers' heels...

It didn't take Tony much time to connect the dots. To think the book canon was fucked up by the ultimate bad guy before he ever came onto the scene; the genius didn't expect it in the least.

"That whole 'cycles of summoning people here' is starting again, isn't it?"

"That's what it's beginning to look like," Cynthia agreed.

"Can this be stopped?"

"Yes. It's not an impossible feat to terminate the ritual cycles, contrary to common belief amongst the Eldar. You just have to kill the person who is powering the rite. The grey wizard, Gandalf, explained this to me once. Only problem is, I've got no clue who would be attempting to carry out the ceremony. Magic here isn't actually magic at all; it's an influence or action that is drawn from the Unseen realm to the Seen."

Stark stared at Cynthia blankly. "...What and what?"

The woman rolled her eyes, "There are two different planes that exist in the physical world of Arda: the Seen and the Unseen. The Seen is exactly what it sounds like. It's everything you see around yourself, from the grass underfoot to the clouds above your head. The Unseen is the same. It is a mirror of the Seen, but spirits, elves, wraiths, and other such mystical things reveal their true selves there. Through a being's will, if it is great enough, it can affect the Unseen realm. A simple man could perhaps grow a flower from a seed in hours, see corporeal beings, or light a fire without any matches with his own power."

"So what you're telling me is whoever is behind this ritual-magic-shit has a strong enough mojo to be more than the average magician?"

"Essentially."

"Fuck. Do you think a wizard could do it?"

"You mean the five wizards? Like Gandalf? Impossible. Stormcrow would not betray the Free Peoples!"

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about Gandalf. Is it possible, though?"

She squinted in thought. "Seeing as they're basically powerful God-like spirits wrapped in a human guise, I'd say yes."

"Would Saruman do it?"

"Saruman? The perpetually-agitated wizard in white?"

"Yes, Saruman the White, the asshole who's ego is almost as big as mine! Would he do it?"

Cynthia had an expression of uncertainty on her face. Tony had an expression of agitation.

"...Possibly?"

Stark just wanted to scream, then follow up his cry of frustration with a good smashing of his face into the boulder he sat on. Repeatedly.

The genius knew Cynthia wouldn't know what he did. Tolkien published his fantasy series in 1954, a number of years after World War II and long after she was whisked away by Sauron to where she was now. Tony knew; He probably knew better than everyone who was starting the new cycle of evil-summon-chant-shit. Saruman the White was pulling at the strings, consolidating his power as the leader of the five wizards and allying himself with the unblinking eye hovering over Barad-Dur. Tony knew Saruman would imprison Gandalf and torture the guy until the grey wizard escapes on the back of an elephant-sized eagle. Tony just knew Saruman would breed an army of Uruk-Hai, an army large enough to completely wipe out the population of humans in Arda.

And now, Anthony "Angbor" Stark had a bad feeling Saruman was going to drag another one of the Avengers screaming to Middle-Earth, whether they liked to or not.

Shades of red and orange churned, swirled, contorted. It struck the ground, unforgiven, transforming the earth into a sea of lacework cracks colored with emerald grass. A gap the width of a woman's thigh caught Steve's foot, throwing him face-forward. His shield jarred his arm in its socket, digging into his chest and lower stomach. The cowl that covered his face, one which proudly displayed the titanium white A of Captain America on the forehead, scraped against his soft cheeks.

Another strike shook the ground. Grass raged with fire, surrounding the fallen avenger and chasing at the heels of the other superheroes. Dirt crumbled and dried, cracks falling away to abyssal crevasses. Steve struggled to his knees, baby blue eyes writ with uncertainty as they reflected the light of the burning flames. Cries blew on the wrathful wind, calling for him in unbearable distress. Black hid the sun, shadowing the meadow. Flames grew higher, the cracks grew deeper than what would be thought possible, and Steven Grant Rogers was left alone in a trap of unrelenting fire.

"Shara… Human… âdhn-aarshu baduzg-botul… abandon tomorrow and reveal the world ahead… burzum fûthûrz… darkness awakens... "

A voice spoke, old and deep with an echo that reverberated in the ribs against the pumping heart, both freezing the super soldier's veins in fear yet boiling the blood inside with wordless heat. It caressed like a lover, yet stabbed like a killer.

"WHO ARE YOU?!" Rogers demanded to the wind and flames, turning his head about blindly as he tried to stand. "WHAT ARE YOU!?"

"... Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul… ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul… âdhn-aarshu baduzg-botul… burzum fûthûrz… agh burzum-ishi krimpatul..."

The spoken words fed the raging fire surrounding the captain, growing higher and hotter with each growling syllable. Hot and cold warred inside Steve, stabbing through his limbs and constricting his lungs. The man felt like he was stuck back in the ice again, trapped in an unending winter. Yet, the heat bubbling beside the chill dried him; crumbling the war veteran to ash only to remake him with magma. Rogers barely noticed when he fell back to his knees, arms braced in front of him, shield still mounted on his left limb. The cries of his teammates were lost to the unforgiving wind and flames, to the voice that only seemed to leave pain now in its wake. There was no ground, there was no sky. Only smoke, ash, and the finishing chant of grating words.

This was the new rapture on Earth, and Captain America was the second to be lost in the flames.