The Southron and the Half-Elf (a LOTR story)

Isrith-Gorvien had been hunted before, of course: by Orcs in the dark, by Elvish comrades in combat training. But never by a Man, and certainly not a Man like him.

She had just arrived in the village of Direnfirel in western Rohan that afternoon. She went directly to the inn for dinner, her horse Freca enjoying the familiar trough fare in the barn. The innkeeper, Guthdor, had given her a warm welcome home after her annual five months away; everyone in the village was used to it by now, and no longer pestered her with questions about where exactly she went nearly half the year and what she did there. His daughter, Maethild, brought her a big bowl of piping hot stew, and she was so consumed with consuming it she didn’t even notice the Man until the farmers at the table next to her started muttering and staring.

He was not of Rohan, or any country Isrith could name. He was dressed in all black with a faded scarlet cloak, splattered with dirt from travel (not unlike herself). He was facing Guthdor, who looked rather bewildered by their conversation. She strained to hear it, curious, but the farmers were too loud voicing their suspicions about strangers. The Man heard them, and gave the room a quick glance, revealing his face. His hair was dark, mostly hidden under his hood, and he kept a short beard. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, framed in thick lashes, his olive skin prominent next to the pale, confused face of the innkeeper. She glimpsed a long, curved sword under his cloak.

At that moment Isrith did not yet know he was hunting her, but she reacted instinctively, leaning forward over her food, her own hood casting her face in shadow. The commentary next to her quieted. His gaze passed over, decided the gossipers were not worth his attention, and turned back to Guthdor.

Isrith gave up on eavesdropping and refocused on her stew, puzzling over where in all of Middle Earth he could be from, and why he would be passing through such a small, out-of-the-way place like Direnfirel in the countryside of Rohan. They rarely received newcomers, let alone foreigners.

She was almost finished eating when he left, turning on his heel, scarlet cloak swirling, out the door instead of up the stairs to a room. Odd.

Guthdor immediately turned his eyes to her, questioning. Because I travel half the year, he thinks I know something about this strange visitor? I will disappoint him.

Isrith scraped up the last of her stew with her spoon and savored it before standing, grabbing her bag, and crossing to Guthdor at the bar.

“He is looking for you,” he said quietly.

“Me? Who is he?”

“He wouldn’t say his name, or his country. Funny accent. Never seen anyone like…” He shook his head. “He said he was looking for someone, a woman, half Elvish.” He chuckled. “I told him I have never heard of such a half-breed, let alone met one!”

Isrith-Gorvien’s blood turned cold. She carefully held her composure. Despite the fact she had lived there for more than five years, no one in the village knew of her heritage; she preferred it that way. It was easier. Everyday, she braided her hair and wrapped it around her head in a crown, a common style for women of Rohan, which effectively hid her odd-shaped ears. They were pointed enough to make Men stare, but not quite enough for the Elves to not notice. The Elves always noticed. I never fit in completely, on either side.

“Then he asked for a woman – a woman! – who was skilled at killing Orcs.”

Isrith refocused on the innkeeper, her unease growing. Guthdor does know that about me – they all do. “And you replied?”

Guthdor appeared quite proud of himself. “Well, you are the best Orc-killer we have, man or woman. But he did seem a bit – peculiar, not exactly a trustworthy sort. I thought it best not to point you out, even though you were sitting right there. I didn’t even look in your direction.”

“Very clever,” she praised him. “Did you tell him anything?”

“Oh, I just said you were definitely the best at taking care of Orc problems, but you hadn’t returned to the village yet.” He beamed, as if he had saved and flattered her simultaneously.

Isrith’s heart sank. “You told him my name? And he gave none?”

“Well, yes.”

In a small village like Direnfirel, everyone knew everyone. He will find my house within minutes. The thought of dealing with him, whoever he was, made Isrith ache with exhaustion. She had rushed her long trip back, eager to get home, to her own bed, her garden, her books, her comfy chair with her feet propped up. Now, she regretted it. She was tired, and she needed time to consider the Stranger before she faced him. He had been taller than her, broad-shouldered, and she recalled his sword. Something about him was unsettling, as if meeting him surely would also mean meeting his blade. I don’t have energy right now for trouble.

Isrith took coins from the purse at her belt and slid them across the bar to Guthdor. “I’ll stay in your finest room tonight.”

His eyebrows went up and mouth opened to speak.

She added another coin. “No questions. And if he comes back, don’t say anything else about me. Your story was a good one; keep to it.”

Guthdor nodded, taking the money except for the extra coin, which he slid back to her, his eyes clouded with concern. “Maethild will be up shortly to see you’re situated.”

“Thank you,” she said, holding his gaze to ensure he felt her true gratitude. Thank you for trying your best to protect me.

“I will see to your Freca,” he went on, as if it was normal for a person with their own house in the same village to stay at the inn.

Isrith nodded and climbed up the stairs, bag in hand, her thoughts circling: Where could that Man be from? How does he know so much about me? What does he want? Why do I have such a bad feeling…?

She yawned, stumbled into one of the empty guestrooms, and put her bag on the chair. She was in the bed and asleep before Maethild even came up to check on her.

The mysterious foreign Man who knows too much will have to wait until tomorrow.

…

Isrith slept like a rock and, thankfully, didn’t dream.

When she woke, she was refreshed, and immediately remembered the Stranger who not only knew her public reputation and secret heritage, but also, thanks to Guthdor, her Rohanese name. If he manages to learn my Elvish name, I will call him a wizard.

She washed her face in the basin and dressed. As usual, she had packed light for travel, since she had basic necessities at both her father’s house in Lothlórien and her own house in Direnfirel. On this particular trip, she had brought and worn men’s trousers and leather armor while Orc-killing, a pale green dress among Elves, and a dark brown dress among Men. That morning she put on a plain white underdress first, rolling up the long sleeves to her elbows, then the brown overdress, tightening the laces on each side and tying them. She simply smoothed her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to take down from its braided crown the night before.

Isrith took her bag, cloak and weapons with her as she descended the stairs, the smell of frying food making her mouth water. There was no one else staying overnight at the inn, so she joined Guthdor and Maethild for breakfast. She ate quietly while they filled her in on all the gossip she had missed while she was away. She tried to listen and react as expected, but her mind was scrambling to solve the mystery of the Man.

Haradrim, it finally dawned on her. He could be from Harad, that distant land south of Gondor…

Their meal and her thoughts were interrupted by her neighbor and friend, Eaddis, suddenly entering the inn. Her eyes were wide and her face was pale with panic; when she saw them, she seemed so relieved that Isrith thought she might cry.

“Thank goodness you’re back! I have terrible news!”

“What is it?” Isrith asked, as Guthdor pulled out an empty seat at the table for his new guest.

“I heard the ruckus in the night, but Fastred said I was dreaming.” Eaddis managed to lower herself into the chair. “Oh, Isrith, I’m so sorry, but your home… The whole place was ransacked last night.”

Maethild gasped.

“Ransacked?” said Guthdor incredulously.

“The door is barely hanging on the hinges. The sofa chair, ripped to shreds. The books – your beloved books, Isrith, the pages are everywhere, not one left on the shelves, an absolute mess. Every cupboard in the kitchen is turned out, the dishes –”

Isrith put her hand on Eaddis’ in an attempt to calm her. She was more traumatized than Isrith was.

“But the worst is the table,” she went on, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “It has four deep grooves down the center, like a – a – claw scratched it.”

There was a stunned silence. Isrith cocked her head. Surely it was the Southerner who did it. But such a mark… That would be Orc work.

Orcs murder and burn whole villages. Why would they come only to my house, and then depart? Why would the Stranger from Harad help them? How could they get this deep into Rohan unchallenged?

Isrith recalled the Southerner’s scarlet-hooded head, the curve of his weapon, the ease of his stance as he had faced Guthdor and then strode out.

He is a hunter. He is hunting me.

She rubbed her brow, forming a plan. If I remain here in Direnfirel, my presence will endanger the whole village, especially if there are Orcs involved. I will go to Edoras. Erkengar is there; he will be of help.

“Thank you, Eaddis, for watching over my place when I am gone,” Isrith said aloud. “You should report the crime to the Thane.” She turned to the innkeeper and his daughter. “May I have some food for the road?”

“You are leaving already?” asked Maethild.

Isrith stood and reached for her weapons. “Yes. Immediately.”

Maethild went off to the kitchen to fulfill the request. Eaddis excused herself, eager to find the Thane and then feed her family. Isrith hugged her friend goodbye, then strapped a sword to each hip and fastened her cloak.

“What does it mean? Where will you go?” asked Guthdor. His worry had returned, deepening the wrinkles in his forehead. Isrith knew he cared for her as if she was one of his nieces, although her Elvish blood meant she was actually older than him despite appearing younger.

“It is a mystery I plan to solve from afar,” she replied elusively. “If anyone else comes asking for me, tell them you haven’t seen me in months.”

Maethild reappeared with the food wrapped. Isrith put it in her bag.

“I already fed Freca early this morning,” said Guthdor, standing to see her out. “She should be ready to ride.”

“Thank you.” She did her best to give him a smile. “I’ll be back with a story to tell before you know it.”

He nodded, looking unconvinced, as Isrith departed. She left his inn and crossed to the stable to once again saddle her horse and ride away.

“Not even one night in my own bed,” she grumbled to Freca.

The horse snorted her own complaints, and then they were off.