As Sauron's return became evident but these rumors persisted, we started to dismiss the rumors as myth. For if these rumors were indeed about Sauron's return, and the event finally came to light, why keep them about and listen to them?

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L U M O R N E L
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The cell was hardly comfortable. The wooden floor and walls were rotten in spaces from age, yet in others, the light wood seemed perfectly new. A rusting metal bucket sat unused as a chamber pot and I was immediately grateful for the absence of any foul odor emanating from it. In the scattered lantern light, the bars hardly gleamed, their rough surface scattering light. The scarf on my head tickled my neck and made my ears feel tight and pained. I bit my tongue to keep from ripping it off—it was the only thing between my identity staying hidden and these people finding out that the dangerous Gwaraith is in their midst.

And my only companion... the guard. No lumps of any other wretched presence filled the cells, only dirty flooring and lone buckets. But in the cell next to me... a large section of the floor was stained dark by gore.

I glared at the blonde guard and she only stared back with a smirk as if emphasizing which side of the bars she was on. An intense urge to stick out my tongue was cut off by the slamming of a door.

My breath caught.

The morning had passed, ticking by with agonizing slowness, until finally twilight appeared and slipped by. There were no windows, yet those beautiful stars sang louder, alerting me to night's presence.

My shoulder and back were a dull roar, screaming anytime I made sudden movements. But I no longer felt them bleeding.

My pack had been taken—everything I had confiscated except for the clothing on my back. Legolas' bow—gone. My journal—gone. No doubt they've read it twice through by now.

Dull panic rose further, climbing to a new height. I could no longer remember entering the mountains or whatever was beyond. How long ago was that? What if I don't write down today and yesterday's events? What if I forget everything I've learned?

Just keep thinking about it and hope your memory loss won't catch up with you.

"Jeanna, unlock the prisoner's cell."

My heart leaped in my throat, hand drifting towards my boot, as a man—a little past middle-aged—stalked to my cell, his boots clomping hard on the wooden floor. He said nothing as the blonde guard, Jeanna, shouldered a quiver, took a bow from the wall, and jiggled a key into the lock. My eyes flicked from the silent man to the door and back again.

The lock clicked open and Jeanna held the door closed at the man inspected me a moment longer. His hazel eyes were like a steel trap—I couldn't tell what lay behind their cold surface, even when they slowly dragged to my own eyes. I bit my tongue as I held his intense stare—didn't even breathe—

Finally, he moved away and I quickly stood, seamlessly withdrawing the small blade from my boot and tucking it behind my back and into my waistband. I tensed, every muscle in body alert—causing my wounds to scream. I bit my tongue to prevent myself from doing likewise as the man entered my cell.

The door closed behind him and Jeanna locked it. The man stopped a foot into the cell, the lantern light shattering on his salt-and-pepper hair. Jeanna held the keys in her hand... I glanced at the man.

"I figure we can play a little get-to-know-you game." The man motioned with his hands, seemingly making the air come alive. "I ask the questions. You answer."

"What do you want?"

The man shrugged and leaned against the cell's bars as if he's done exactly that a thousand times. "A plate of food and a warm hearth."

I blinked, furrowing my brows.

"I'd also like to know who you are."

You won't like the answer.

The man didn't even blink. "My name is Diran. See? I'm playing along. Now it's your turn."

I bit my lip, fingers going to my wrist—

But my bracelet, full of names, wasn't there.

This man—Diran—stole it.

I bit my tongue harder.

But I had played with it yesterday, examined the names.

"My name is Sunngifu."

Diran nodded absently, shifting to lean more comfortably against the bars. "So, Sunngifu, why would you be stupid enough to travel through the Ered Nimrais?"

I fixated upon his shoes, his nice, well cared for shoes, and gnawed on my lip. Glancing at Diran, I saw in his demeanor he already knew the answer. And answering his questions would make me seem compliant and unthreatworthy.

"I was searching for the Western Hope."

"And why are you pursuing the Western Hope? They've done nothing for you. They only attack cities full of starving families, claiming to liberate them from the 'enemy.' But all they ever really accomplish is ensure the starvation of those who cannot obtain food."

The man continued to stand there like he had all the time in the world, but a dark storm cloud rained down upon his face.

"I..." Attack now or wait until he's leaving? My injuries burned at the thought. "...I'm looking for Legolas Thranduilion."

"For what purpose?"

Haven't you read my notebook?

I held his gaze for a fraction of a second "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," he dared.

Only my silence greeted him and I tried not to shift in fear that my blade would fall—or cut me.

Jeanna stood stock still, eyes drifting from me to the man, fingers absently playing with the ring of keys.

Finally, I let my eyes slip back to the man. "Why are you here? What's the purpose of..." I struggled for the right words. "This organization."

The man only stared, face as calm as stone. Yet, he saw something in me—and answered.

"We take things and sell it to a very rich lord. In return, we have coins to buy cloth and food to fill our bellies and to govern ourselves as it pleases him. This lord may not be the kindest to the filth of the land but he allows us to live another day."

"As long as you supply him."

Diran nodded curtly.

I glanced at his clothing. Fine cloth draped his body—not worn. Silver buttons. New leather shoes.

Jeanna. Her weapons were finely made, shiny clips pulled back her blonde hair. Kohl lined her eyes.

And the men who took my bow... they wanted it for money...

They weren't of the Western Hope.

I glanced at the man in a new, worrying way. Had my weapons—Legolas's bow—already been sold for coins? That bow was my ticket into the Western Hope, my validation to those there that I really must have known him.

And Dever—how had I known a thief? It all but confirmed that I really had been a bad person.

The man stepped away from the bars, slipping brass knuckles onto his calloused hands.

My eyes snapped to his—my heart began to beat a little faster. And I felt the cool heat of energy pool in my hands. I clenched them tightly.

"What does this lord want?"

Diran shrugged as if he didn't truly know. "Compliance. Supplies. Some say he searches for something others say he wants Arda to be ruled under his own sick kind of 'order.' Either way, he is only succeeding in dominating and turning people into cattle for slaughter." He sauntered another step.

I took half a step back, my words spilling out of my mouth in a river. "If he's so bad, then why do you do business with him?"

"Alagosson doesn't do business, he subdues with fear. But he's the only one that gives us what we need to live."

My heels hit the wall. "So you please and succumb to the one who took everything away from you?"

His eyes flashed as he advanced.

"Orcs and monsters and murderers roam the lands where there once was peace. They've burned our crops, raided our stores, and block our trade routes. Fear prevents us from asking for aid from neighboring towns—and it would be no use. They've all been ruined."

Darin advanced another step, forcing me flush against the wooden wall, glowing hands behind my back. Please, please don't let him see it. Don't let it get brighter.

"Our warriors were killed before the black gate under Aragorn's rule, most of the surviving leaving us like cowards to join the doomed ranks of the Western Hope. If it wasn't for Aragorn and the betrayal of the prophecy-written," he spat, "then women and children wouldn't have been left unprotected and killed.

"And now with no crops and cattle and no way of obtaining more without orcs burning our supplies. With fear of traveling in search for more—" He drew in a slow breath, looking away, and regathered his voice softly. "The peoples of Middle-Earth are starving. If it wasn't for the fools who call themselves heroes and their failure of defeating the shadow, then Alagosson wouldn't have risen and the hopes of the few left wouldn't be smashed and scattered.

"He only dominated because Aragorn and that dead witch let him. If it wasn't for them, we wouldn't have had need to turn to such a hellish lord for food and supplies that Aragorn and his rabble would never give us."

His once stoic eyes burned with living flame, a flame so hot I thought his hate would strike me.

"So yes, we please and succumb to him. We were given no other choice but to."

His breath was hot on my cheeks, and wide-eyed I saw the sweat clearly on his neatly shaven face. Saw the despair deep in his hazel eyes. Heard the sorrow and frustration and rage in his voice.

Felt the hopelessness in his energy as it sang around me.

My throat constricted, my voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. "I-I'm sorry."

Darin scoffed, backing up a comfortable step. "For what? Surviving this mess? Then I'm sorry too."

His hard eyes pierced mine, such despondency filling them my chest nearly caved. That cool heat leaked away from my palms, leaving my hands dull.

No one, no one should ever have to feel like that.

Without knowing what I was doing, I reached out a comforting hand.

Anger flashed across his features, his gaze going from my hand to my face—

I recoiled my arm—

Pain erupted across my cheek, my neck twisting violently to the side. I cried out, cradling my cheek with my hand—

Blood shone on Darin's brass knuckles.

I gaped at the man, unable to move as I held my face, blood wetting my fingers. Darin clenched his fist, covering the bloodied metal with his calloused hand, his face hardening. I retracted my hand to see red smeared on my fingers. My scarf loosely hung from my shoulders—my hair.

Hair as white as the stars flowed around my neck, free from its confines.

I jerked my gaze back up and—

—and Darin had retreated a few steps.

His eyes were as wide as saucers. His skin drained of color—

"Open the door." Diran's back hit the cell bars, his aging black hair shifting on his forehead. Ever-wide hazel eyes never left mine.

Jeanna stood stock-still, but instead of cold fear portrayed on her visage, hard fury seeped in. I recognized that fury instantly—I had seen it just as much as I had seen fear. Fear and anger—all directed towards me.

For a reason I didn't know.

But murder was in the guard's eyes. And that brillant light leaked back into my open palms, illuminating my hands and creeping up my arms—and Diran saw.

"Open the door!"

Diran twisted around, gripping the bars until his knuckles turned white. His body trembled. The clerk rushed in, knife in his ink-stained fingers.

"Jeanna!!"

But she no longer had ears for Diran. The ring of keys clattered to the ground. Fingers that did not shake notched an arrow in her short bow. A bow to kill fish trapped in a barrel.

Why does this always happen?

I rushed forward, ducking just as an arrow embedded itself in the wall where I had stood.

I yanked on Duran's shirt, holding him as a shield while pulling free my knife. I held the blade to his throat.

"I don't want to hurt him," I said, adjusting my grip in the knife. I prayed my face didn't betray my bluff. "But if you don't let me go I'll be forced to."

Jeanna's face kept its livid fury. "You murdered my husband."

My hand wavered. So I am a killer.

"I'm sorry. But I have no memory of that. Please, let me go. I have no desire to hurt either of you, I just need to find the Western Hope."

She let her arrow fly. I ducked further behind Diran, but it missed by mere inches.

"I don't care what you want," she snarled, taking a step closer. Watery lines drifted down her cheeks. "I only want you dead."

I clutched my knife harder, pressing it deeper into Diran's skin. Yet not hard enough to cause him to bleed.

"I will kill him."

But she didn't seem to care—or she called my bluff. She took another step forward, letting loose another arrow.

Letting loose a groan of frustration, I pushed Diran away, immediately letting my emotions rush forth.

In turn, my light flared brightly and I clung to it. I used what I had, retracing the line of power into me and digging more out until the room was full. Full of light. Of brilliance.

Jeanna cried out, but I heard the thwack of a bowstring.

My power shot out, more pure than before.

And then it all faded away.

The world was left pale in comparison to the light that previously filled it. Dull and faded.

Jeanna stood wide-eyed, bow nocked and ready. Yet she didn't fire.

The arrow the guard fired lay inches away from Diran's feet. Its wooden shaft was nearly charred black, its fletchings burned away.

Diran groaned from where he lay on the ground, writhing in pain. The back of his shirt was gone, as was the back of his pants. In their place was his red and raw skin. Bleeding. Burned.

I cried out, covering my mouth and stumbling into the cell bars. Diran's skin—ruined.

Oh Valar. Oh Valar—

Jeanna swiveled, an arrow flew. My feet became as heavy as stone, rooted to the ground. My eyes were anchored onto Diran's ruined form, my ears on his pained groans. Utter horror clawed through my veins.

Before the guard's arrow could even lock on a direct course, she yelled and her arrow hit the floor feet away from my legs, her bow clattered to the ground.

I turned and—

A man with dark brown hair, laden with blades, tackled Jeanna to the ground.

Dever.