A/N: A happy birthday gift from me, to you. Remember, updates will be going up on Archive of Our Own, not Wattpad, at least until the fic is complete!

Chapter Two

It had been many years since Míril last saw Bree so up in arms. Both literally and figuratively, unfortunately, as she saw a local militia of shopkeepers and what passed for learned men among the Breelanders gather just beyond the gates. Had she ever seen it like this?

The chaos would make her job more difficult. Blood stained the edges of her fraying grey-green cloak. No one in Bree would be able to tell the difference between orc blood and human blood. The reputation of the Dunedain hardly helped.

Still, she'd learned more than a few tricks to evade curious eyes. The shade beneath the bows of the Chetwood would help. Míril passed beneath the boughs to circle Bree from the direction of Archet and Combe.

A handful of trees backed up to the stone walls of the north side of Bree. Seizing the cover of angry men screaming about missing horses, she hauled herself until she could drop into Bree with as silent a step as possible. Eerie quiet met her.

In the secluded alley, only a startled cat made any sound. Míril removed her hood. She splashed a bit of water over her face from a puddle atop a nearby barrel. Hopefully, it would remove any leftover orc blood. Nothing short of a deep bath in Rivendell would cleanse the layer of dirt and grime off her.

Míril took a deep breath, eyes closed. The stench of waste, burning wood, and mildewed hay slammed into her. What she wouldn't give to be in Rivendell. She'd even take a few days in the outpost of Esteldin, surrounded by a handful of rangers who knew what herbs would cleanse the air of darkness.

But, she had a job. Míril opened her eyes. One foot in front of the other, she moved into the road. The Prancing Pony would be her best bet for news. Butterbur grated on her every nerve but he kept a welcoming fire where gossipmongers gathered.

The closer she got to the Pony, the louder shouts and arguing grew. She could see a small crowd gathered outside the inn, men waving their hands in the air like it would actually do something. A handful of hobbits smoked pipes together to the side, casting glares up the steps to the open door.

"No I haven't heard about your horses, Mr. Milkweed, but if you'd take it up with the Watchers maybe you might get your answers!" Barliman Butterbur had hands on hips, a stained apron down his front and bags under his eyes. "I just run this here inn. I don't run the town!"

She paused beside a streetlamp a few meters from the crowd. A hobbit girl caught her eye and Míril smiled. The girl ran. Míril suppressed every urge not to roll her eyes. She understood their fear, but she didn't have time for it.

"What news?" she said, tapping a man on the shoulder at the back of the crowd. "Quite an uproar."

"Oh, not one of you!"

A few in the crowd turned at his shout and five pairs of angry eyes stared at her from terrified faces. They parted, moving as far from her as possible. Míril sighed.

"You aren't wanted here!" said a hobbit, stomping up to her. "You ain't a Breelander, so stay out of Bree!"

"That's right!" another man stood beside him. "Outsiders bring trouble. We want no trouble!"

Míril shook her head. "Perhaps I can aid you." She didn't have time for this. There was no time. Where was the Ring?"

"I beggin' your pardon, lass, but these good folk have had more excitement in the last days than any of us want our whole lives," Butterbur said. "It'd be best if you kept on down the road."

"You would turn aside a stranger from your inn?" she asked.

He crinkled his nose, a deep frown settling in his features. "A sad day it is that I turn aside a customer, but I'm afraid I have no space for you. No space! Leave, please!"

The hobbit who had first spoken nodded. "That's right. Barliman Butterbur knows what's best!"

"We don't need another Outsider taking any more hobbits into the wild," said a sandy-haired hobbit next to him.

Another outsider taking hobbits. Míril's heart quickened. Who was the outsider? Was it Aragorn? Another ranger? Or something more sinister.

No one would answer her. They turned their backs or walked away. A few spit at her feet. She could feel frustration burning in her chest as she wanedered down the lanes trying to get someone, anyone, to speak with her.

A deep dread settled in her stomach as she drew near the South Gate. Míril spent more time glancing over her shoulders than looking forward. The shadows lengthened, and animals fell silent. But the people weren't silent.

Wailing mothers clutched at children. Husbands hid wives inside doorways. The Gate lay in ruins, splintered wooden doors pounded deep into muddy ground. A more organized militia than that of the other gates stood clutching spears and whispering in hushed voices.

Míril stopped in the shadow of a hedge row. The sun shined high in the sky, creeping towards evening. But it felt cold. Each breath strangled her lungs.

The Nazgul had been here. Many of them. Death clutched the South Gate tightly. If none would speak to her, then she would have to gather information other ways.

She closed her eyes, willing her senses to focus only on the sounds around her. Days of training in youth from Elladan to become a hunter even amongst a crowd had served her well. The men spoke of war upon the borders. The women cried for futureless children. The children, they wondered why the world was ending.

The stones, though. She could hear their groans from dark hooves. Elladan said elves could hear their words, but at least as half-elves, they could learn to hear their cries. And these stones cried.

A chirping bird broke her concentration from the dread. Míril opened her eyes. A blue jay flitted from fence post to fence post where once the Breelanders had stabled horses. A note of hope. What hope, though? Who had been there, and had they arrived in time?

"You're too late."

Míril turned to a gate in the hedge. Leaning against the low wooden door stood Bill Ferny, a scraggly man with greying dark hair and wrinkled skin. He sported a bruise in the middle of his face and over his right eye.

"What do you mean?" she said. She hadn't wanted the one person in Bree willing to talk with her to be Ferny, but beggars couldn't be choosers. "What do you know, Ferny?"

"Now, now. That ain't the way to speak to a man upon his doorstep." He shot her a crooked smile, unlatching the gate and joining her in the alleyway entrance.

She couldn't play this game. Not right now. Míril launched forward, grabbing him by the throat and pushing him against the stone wall beside the hedge. "Give me one good reason not to end your miserable life right now."

His eyes bulged. Ferny grasped at her hands, ranking fingernails across her skin. The fear in the air twisted around her heated chest. Míril forced herself to breathe. She relaxed her grip.

"I could call the guards!" he stammered. "I will!"

But she shook her head. Míril stepped back and surveyed him. He hunched over on himself, cowering back like she'd stabbed him. She hadn't. She'd thought about it though. This had Ferny treachery written all over it. He dwelt too comfortably in the darkness.

It didn't matter though. And she said as much. She had a job to do, and killing Ferny, though it would likely be justice, would not aid her. If the hobbits had left with Aragorn, he'd head for Rivendell. If the hobbits left with someone, or something, else then likely they would disappear into the wilderness.

As she pushed through the crowds to leave by the South Gate, it occurred to her that Aragorn could have taken the Ranger paths through the Chetwood and the Marshes. Perhaps she'd walked right by them and not known. If that was the case, she'd throw herself at Elladan and Elrohir's feet for mocking herself.