In which things are set in motion.

Lorna slept most of the way to Rohan, and so missed the Elves' reaction to the hordes of walking dead. Which was really a shame, because it had probably been epic.

When she did wake, they were surrounded by the things, and she damn near pissed herself. Aelis had mentioned that some of her people would show up, but knowing and seeing were two very, very different things.

"What in flying mother fuck?" she asked, her voice harsh and gravelly.

"Do not ask," Thranduil said. "I am sure we do not wish to know, and equally sure we will soon find out."

"Do we have to?" she whined.

"Unfortunately, yes. And then we must call on King Thengel, to see what he and his court are making of this."

"I doubt it's anything good," she sighed. "How far from him are we? Because zombies or no zombies, I did say I'd shag you senseless. Once I actually have enough energy to walk."

Thranduil laughed. "I will see what I can do. Meanwhile, at least one of them will likely want to speak with us."

"Oh, joy."

The rest of the journey through the Misty Mountains was so uneventful that Gandalf was not at all surprised when it suddenly ceased to be so.

They were halfway to Beorn's house when he felt it: a ripple in the fabric of Middle-Earth quite unlike the storms, alien and malevolent. There was coldness to it, frigid and dead as the void of space, but it swiftly turned hot, dry, and metallic against his mind's eye. It was far stronger than the storms, too, though the epicenter was difficult to guess – somewhere to the north was as close as he could estimate.

Sharley froze, and if there had been any color in her face, it likely would have drained. She was normally a difficult creature to read, but just now there was sheer, naked terror in her expression. It only made things more disconcerting.

"Sharley, what is it?" he asked.

"Our unwanted guest just arrived," she said, swallowing. "Thorvald. Thorvald's here, but he's brought something else with him, something I can't see. I can't see it. I'm supposed to be able to see everything, and there's so much in Middle-Earth that I can't. I have no goddamn idea what's with him, but there shouldn't be anything."

She pressed her hands to her temples, looking more animated – if distraught – than he had ever seen her. Bilbo and Sméagol both watched her, concerned and confused; they had picked up a little English, but not nearly enough to know what she was saying now.

"I have to go," she said. "I need to see what the hell he's done."

Gandalf leaned against his staff. "And how much good will you do, by yourself?" he asked. "Could you kill Thorvald on your own?"

"No," she admitted. "His fate's bound up with other humans'. There's not much my word won't do, but killing him's one of 'em."

"Can't, or won't?" he asked.

"Won't," she said. "This is Death's sword, Gandalf. Technically it can kill anything, but sometimes the price of that is too high. It's why I wouldn't try to destroy the ring with it. The sword knows better than to break the world, and some things…would. But Gandalf, at least I could slow him down."

"And if you are captured, and the sword taken from you?" he queried.

"Nobody but me an use it. Literally, it would burn the hand off anyone else who even picked it up. Captured…I don't know. He might be able to hold me. He might not."

"Do you really think it worth the risk?" He didn't, but Sharley would do what Sharley wanted.

"I don't know," she said, chewing on her lower lip.

"I know," he said firmly. "It is entirely possible I will be drawn aside during this quest, temporarily or permanently. They will need your protection then."

She looked at him. "You might not be there the whole way?"

"Should other danger arise, I may be have to see to it," he said. "A wizard's work is never done. Should that prove necessary, I would feel safer if you were with them."

Her mismatched eyes searched his for truth, and must have found it. "Okay," she said. "I'm trusting you. I don't do that often, so don't make me regret it."

"I will try not to, dear girl."

Much had infuriated Sauron, these last few days. His Nazgûl had been routed by two mortals, thousands of dead walked the face of Middle-Earth, and still he could not find the being behind Angmar's razing.

Now, however, he was intrigued.

The storms that brought the dead had been doors to another world. What had so briefly opened in the snowy wastes of Forodwaith was also a door, but of a very different kind, to a very different destination. The creature it discharged was also unlike any of the other strangers that had come to Middle-Earth.

It looked much like the usurper in Minas Tirith – a mortal man, tall for one of his kind, his pale eyes refracting the sunset like an animal's. He was younger, though, perhaps barely into his second decade, and obviously suffering the effects of some terrible fever – his white face was flushed with it, and his eyes were bloody at the corners. And yet, through some alien sorcery, he was not mortal at all. Even through the Palantír, Sauron could feel the unnatural power that bore him up, surrounding him like an aura.

Perhaps acquiring the mortal strangers was unnecessary. He had a greater prize in mind now – one he could not leave to his ineffective Nazgûl.

This creature was something he would have to retrieve himself.

It was time to venture forth from Mordor.

OH SNAP. Well, now everyone's boned. This concludes Ettelëa, which will shortly be followed by Auth uin i Ettelëai, which means War of the Strangers.

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