Darkness.

Gerithor opened his eyes, but it was no better than when they had been closed, for all that greeted him was a black void, swirling and lifeless before him.

"Caledorn? Kalan??" He shouted. His voice echoed hollowly, almost as if he was in a massive room, but no answer came.

He tried to remember; he had fallen asleep, hadn't he? In the forest, with the campfire still burning low. The scent of pine, the warmth of the flames... but that warmth was gone now. Either the fire had been extinguished, or he was no longer anywhere near it.

A cold knot twisted in his gut.

Had he been taken? Spirited away like Glorfindel, thrown into some sorcerous prison beyond reach or reason? 

Calling out again, he was once more met with a heavy silence. A moment later a distant rumble sounded, something akin to what two mountains pushing against each other might've sounded like, a grinding, crushing sound that echoed in the forest.

He slowly rose to his feet, pushing off the ground with his hands. It felt strange; The dirt seemed almost like ash between his fingers, and when he lifted them to his face the distinct stench of sulfur filled his nostrils.

Where am I?

As if in response to the question in his mind, a dim light appeared in the distance, beckoning him. It bobbed too and fro, like a lantern held by phantom hands.

"Who's there?" He asked. This time his voice caught in his throat, and he began to cough violently. Each breath felt as if it were robbing the air from his lungs instead of giving him the relief he needed, forcing a feeling of panic to rise up from the depths of his chest.

He began to stagger toward the light, still coughing and choking on the dry air. As he got closer the light danced further away, and a long staircase made of obsidian that was only slightly brighter than the darkness surrounding him appeared before him.

He slowly ascended, each step sounding hollow and lifeless in the void. I must be having a vision, he thought to himself. But this feels more real than any I've had before.

As he climbed the stairs, they suddenly stopped. They had seemed to go on forever at first, but now he stood upon a flat, endless plain. There was an amber light that bathed the entire area, revealing a jagged landscape of rocks and ash. There was only once place Gerithor could think of that looked so barren and desolate.

Mordor.

There was barely any time to ponder his predicament before one of the rocks shifted, transforming into a cloaked figure before his very eyes. He reached for his sword, but his hand was only met with empty air.

"Who are you?" He shouted once more, his voice coming out weak and cracked. The figure strode slowly forward, a hood obscuring his face. His cloak was burnt and torn, and under it he wore a suit of broken, blackened armor.

"You do not recognize me?" The figure asked, a hint of sorrow in his voice. It sounded so familiar, but as hard as Gerithor tried he could not place it.

"Show yourself!" He cried, fear overcoming him. The figure lowered his hood, and a bright light emanated from it that blinded Gerithor, forcing him to shield his eyes.

"I am he who was once light," the figure said, his voice echoing as if it belonged to a multitude. Outstretching his arms, his demeanor changed to one of power and might. Gerithor took a fearful step backward, shielding his eyes from the light with a soot-stained hand. A moment passed before the hood returned to its place, and just as abruptly as it had come the light faded. "Now I am but a shadow and a visage of what once was."

The shadow that had taken the light's place grew larger, grasping out toward Gerithor from under the cowl like tentacles of darkness, writhing and twisting as if in agony. He tried to run but felt his feet planted in place, unable to move despite his best efforts. Whispers reached his ears as the darkness overcame him, and the landscape changed drastically. Before him were hundreds of bodies upon a bloody field; Then a passage through black mountains with a dismal tower at its end, a lone light shining from an upper porthole; Then a lake, still and shrouded with unnaturally thick mist. The lake was the last thing he saw before the shadow completely took over, and he felt himself grow faint as he fell to his knees. The whispers grew louder, calling to him, speaking unutterable evils in the speech of Mordor as well as the speech of Men. Among them his name finally became the loudest, Gerithor, Gerithor, GERITHOR...

=======================================

"Gerithor?"

The ranger's eyes snapped open at the sound of Kalan's voice, his hand instinctively going to the sword that now met his fingers instead of being absent.

"Ya slept all night! Didn't even wake up to the smell o' bacon!" The dwarf waved a slice of the savory meat tantalizingly in front of Gerithor before dropping it in his own mouth with a satisfied grin.

"Where's Caledorn?" Gerithor asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There was a sharp pain behind them, but he brushed it off as he looked around for the dark elf.

"Scoutin' ahead, I'd imagine," Kalan said. "He said we're near Rohan, and without all the trees around he though he could perhaps catch a glimpse of the buggers that took Glorfindel."

"Rohan...?" Gerithor couldn't remember being anywhere close to Rohan. His last memory was of camping just outside of Bree on the Greenway; The town guard wouldn't let them enter, or indeed anyone else foreign to the small town, as the roads were rapidly growing more dangerous with each passing day.

"Aye lad," Kalan replied, giving the ranger a strange look before taking a large bite of scrambled egg. "Do ya not remember? Ah, who am I kiddin! I don't really remember either! The past couple days have been as unremarkable as an elf's swordsmanship!"

"Such a weak insult," Caledorn said, appearing from behind a large rock. He held a bloody bag in his uninjured hand, dropping it in front of the fire as he knelt down beside them.

"Eh... What've ya got in there lad?" Kalan asked, poking the bag with his thick boot. "Lunch?"

"Hardly," the elf said, raising an eyebrow. "Unless you're fond of orc brains."

Kalan recoiled, kicking the bag away from the fire. "Why in Durin's name did ya bring that nasty thing here?"

"Because he was a scout," Caledorn replied, reaching for the bag mid-roll and untying it. "And whoever sent him wrote the message on his forehead."

Gerithor nodded slowly in understanding. "That was common among some of the tribes of the Ettenmoors. Kept the scout from losing or forgetting the message."

Caledorn pulled the head from the bag, utterly unphased by the grisly trophy. Kalan mimed retching and Gerithor could feel his appetite quickly disappear. The creature was far uglier than many of its race, with oversized milky eyes that were still wide open and pieces of rusted metal holding parts of its scarred face together. Upon its skull was a series of words in Black Speech, crudely carved into the skin with a knife that likely wasn't very sharp.

"What's it say?" Kalan asked, shielding his face from the sight with one hand while shoveling in the last of his breakfast with the other.

"That's the problem," Caledorn said. "It's only part of a message. It says 'Be on the lookout for two'."

"That is rather vague," Gerithor agreed. "Did you search the body?"

Caledorn raised his eyebrow again, as if offended at the mere suggestion of being so careless as not to have. "Of course. Aside from an addiction to collecting human teeth, our friend here had nothing of interest on his person. I thought perhaps they had marked him somewhere else, which is why I brought the head back. My search was cut short by a party of strange Uruks bearing a strange device upon their armor."

"A strange device ya say?" Kalan inquired, finally finishing the last of his food.

Caledorn nodded, his expression turning grim. "A white hand. Some new enemy has arisen in Rohan."

"A lidless Eye, a Dead Tree, and a white Hand... Our enemies need to get more creative with their imagery!" Kalan snorted. "What's next, a bloody foot?"

Gerithor, during the course of their conversation, had taken the head from Caledorn, studying it intently. "I think I found it," he said, his tone one of disgust.

"Well? Then read it!" Caledorn said, a slight hint of excitement in his tone.

Gerithor scrunched his nose. "I think it's under his tongue."

"So open his mouth and read it!" Caledorn insisted.

Gerithor reluctantly complied, prying open the creature's dead mouth with his fingers. As he did, a foul fume rose from it, almost forcing him to drop the head in disgust. He forced himself to persist, reaching into the fanged mouth and pulling a piece of drool-covered parchment from under its tongue. As soon as he had finished he dropped the head, wiping his hands on his cloak in revulsion. "That might be the foulest thing I've ever had to do," he said, giving his companions a dour look before unfolding the paper.

Beginning from the message on the forehead, he started to read. "Be on the lookout for two halflings. They will look like small Men to you. If you find them wandering or in the company of others, take them alive and let them come to no harm. If you hear word of their capture by our allies, send word immediately."

"Halflings... Frodo and Samwise!" Gerithor exclaimed. "They know!"

"This orc was under the employ of the Dead Tree," Caledorn said. "If they know, so do all of the Dark Lord's servants. There will be nowhere safe for them."

At this Kalan spoke, his tone cynical. "What did any of us expect? We left our mightiest weapon in the hands of hobbits! It was folly to begin with!"

Caledorn nodded in agreement. "Though we rarely are of the same mind, I think you're right. However, it still must be destroyed, for if it were used as a weapon it would surely be turned against us."

Gerithor remained silent. He, for one, was in agreement with the original plan, though he wouldn't voice it here. For his part, he knew that the chances of the Fellowship succeeding were slim, but any alternative would have been just as perilous.

"Say, what's that smoke?" He asked suddenly, his attention drawn to a thick column of black smoke just over the hill.

"It was not there when I found the scout," Caledorn replied, worry creasing his forehead. "But I have a feeling that it doesn't bode well."

==================================

The party ascended over the hill, careful to remain quiet in case of danger. The smell of smoke began to enter Gerithor's nostrils, and as they came the top he let out a gasp of shock as a grisly scene unfolded before them.

A small homestead, perhaps a farm or pasture, was in flames. So furious was the fire that the thatched roof of the main house had already collapsed, with the wooden walls threatening to do the same. The flames rose high into the crisp morning air, hissing and popping as they consumed the dry wood.

But it wasn't that, or even the fields burning behind it, that drew their attention.

Hundreds of bodies lie upon the ground all around the small homestead; bodies of horses and men and more than a few orcs. The men were clad in the green of an evening forest, the colors of Rohan. The morning sun reflected off of their burnished armor, stained and marred by the weapons of war. In stark contrast, the orcs wore dulled armor of midnight black, and all bore the device of the White Hand. In the few areas that were devoid of corpses, the tall grass was stained dark red, as if that were its natural color.

"Udun," Gerithor swore silently, taking in the grim sight. "What happened here?"

"What will soon happen to all of Middle Earth," A familiar voice said behind him. As one, they all spun to face the newcomer, weapons drawn. They were greeted by an old man clad in white, his hand wrapped around a staff of matching color. Though his garb was strange, the twinkling blue eyes that peered out from almost impossibly bushy eyebrows and the kind smile gave him away.

"Gandalf?" Gerithor asked in astonishment, lowering his sword and taking a moment to study the old wizard. No longer wearing the tall pointed hat he was known for, Gandalf seemed shorter and less imposing. But something else appeared different beyond even his appearance. He seemed somehow... Wiser. As if he had endured a great trial and come out of it stronger than ever before. "You know, wearing white around here might not be the most well-advised plan, what with Saruman joining banners with Mordor."

At this Gandalf laughed, and with this simple gesture, the old Gandalf returned for a moment. "You seem surprised to see me! And yet, the only times you ever do see me are in times of great peril."

Caledorn interjected, his tone grim. "As much as I too love light conversation, we need to know what took place here. Our path takes us across the plain and if this land is no longer safe, we may have to consider other routes."

Gandalf turned to Caledorn, his thick eyebrows knitting together like two caterpillars crossing paths. "Darkness has overtaken the land of the Horse Lords. Even as we speak, the Hornburg lies under siege by forces of Isengard, as well as Corsairs that have come from the Western coasts."

The wizard took on a troubled appearance then, turning back to Gerithor. "How were Corsairs allowed to land unhindered on western shores? Were not your people keeping watch?"

Gerithor put a hand to his temple, the full force of his failure returning. "The Grey Havens... Gandalf, the Havens fell. Too many good Men were lost there. Elves as well. The strength of the Dunedain has been shattered, and Rivendell can offer no relief. The survivors have fled to the Last Homely House. And Gandalf," Gerithor continued, his voice breaking slightly. "They took Glorfindel."

Gandalf's eyes widened, visibly jarred by the news. "Then our worst fears have come to pass. The West is falling, and Rohan shall soon follow. These riders were our only hope, for the men at the Hornburg can only last so long. In three sunrises I told them I would return. But the sun has risen twice and now I find their reinforcements crushed by the White Hand of Saruman."

"What can we do to help?" Gerithor asked.

"Your quest takes you to Mordor, but Glorfindel is already beyond your reach for now," he replied, speaking more urgently. He began to stride down the hill toward the battlefield, forcing the three companions to follow. "There is a secret path, a possible escape for the people of Rohan. You must meet them there and lead them to safety."

Kalan, who had remained silent until now, spoke up, still huffing slightly from the effort of ascending the hill in the first place. "But what of Glorfindel! We can't just give up on him!"

"These lands are far too dangerous now, my friend," Gandalf said. "I will aid you and find you safe passage through once you lead the people of Rohan to safety. They need you more than Glorfindel does."

Gerithor slowed to a halt. It didn't sit well with him to abandon Glorfindel. None of them knew why the Enemy could possibly want the elven warrior alive, and the very thought of what they might do to him sent shivers down the ranger's spine. "I will not leave Glorfindel to his fate. If we do not save him, nobody will."

Gandalf barely even turned to acknowledge him. "He's far too valuable a prize for Sauron to allow you to liberate him. Even now more orcs and evil Men join with his captors to ease their passing into the Land of Shadow. No, Gerithor Lastborn, it is already too late."

With a defeated sigh, Gerithor came to the old wizard's side. "You have never led my people astray, Gandalf. If it is your will that our path is diverted, then so be it."

"It is not just my will, but your cousin and chieftain Aragorn's as well, I think. He too is among those besieged behind the walls of the Hornburg." He stopped, turning then to Caledorn. "You alone shall continue your quest, though it take you down dark and lonely paths. I have a feeling that the fates of you and Glorfindel and irrevocably intertwined, for better or for ill." 

"But you will not be wholly alone," the old wizard continued. "There is one who may aid you on your path, if he yet lives. Seek out the young prince of Rhun you aided in years past. Long has he fought the Enemy, and he knows their ways better than most. He may know where they plan to imprison Glorfindel."

The dark elf's eyes, like the stormy boughs of a forest, shone with inner fire. "It shall be as you say, Mithrandir."

The wizard, satisfied with the answer, looked then upon all three companions, his expression grim. "I feel it in my heart that the four of us shall never again meet all together in the land of the living. Namarie, Caledorn. Farewell, Gerithor and Kalan. May you all have good fortune in your tasks!"

And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the wizard vanished. It was Caledorn that spoke first. 

"Then it seems as if I shall depart from your company sooner rather than later," He said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. In his eyes was a faraway look, as if he were troubled by something he would not say. 

"Perhaps we will be able to reunite after our task is complete," Gerithor replied, offering as much encouragement as he could muster. Something about this parting felt different... And Gandalf's foreboding words did little to alleviate his fears. 

"Perhaps," Caledorn said, shouldering his pack as he surveyed the devastation surrounding them. "But if this is a sign of things to come, the land shall become far more treacherous. Be wary ranger. As for you," he continued, turning to Kalan. "Try not to eat us all out of house and home."

Kalan laughed, a deep, guttural sound like rocks shifting beneath the earth. "No promises there! And you! Don't go stickin' your pointy ears where they have no business bein'! You have one job, don't go tryin' to save all of Middle Earth now!"

"I shall try, dear friend," the normally surly elf said with a faint smile. After saying farewell one final time, Caledorn departed over the bloodied field, soon becoming one with the shadows of the tall grass. Gerithor watched until he disappeared, a lingering sense of sorrow in his heart that he couldn't place. 

"We shouldn't delay," Kalan said, his tone heavy. Gerithor nodded, taking a long draught from his waterskin before following the dwarf into the maze of bodies, intent now only on arriving in time to save the besieged people of Rohan.