[Airerûthiel]

It had been a long journey back east, but he knew it was no use not to stop walking - not now, not when he was so close to his goal. As he reached the citadel of Edoras, his heart seemed to be dragging him further and further eastwards, back to Gondor, back to his true home in Ithilien. But he couldn't go back, no matter how much he wanted to. He could never wash the blood stains off his hands for good.

And yet...if he went back, it would only be justice. He would die for what he knew were his crimes, yet in the eyes of Gondor he would die for what they thought his father had done. The hour grew late, and his silver-grey mare whinnied softly as her hooves clicked on the cobbled courtyard of the inn. He stroked her neck lovingly, speaking to her in the language of his mother's people. But even though he loved this horse, his one companion and trusted friend, more than life itself, he could not look into her soulful eyes.

He dismounted and quieted her in the tongue of the Elves and of Rohan. After stabling her for the night, he stared up into the sky. The stars twinkled like pinpricks of light buttoning down night's midnight blue velvet cloak. But written in their patterns he saw only the deeds that had haunted his steps for what seemed to be his whole life. Sighing heavily and loosening his grip on the sword that had done the deed, he walked into the inn.

~*~*~*~*~

A blast of cold wind came in through the wooden door of The White Horse, along with a hooded and cloaked figure dressed in black. His head bent low, he walked towards the bar and sat down at a stool, barely looking up to grunt his order of a pint of ale. Normally strangers were disregarded in The White Horse; they were stared at momentarily and then conversation was resumed again. But this time it was as silent as the grave for what seemed like eternity.

He drained the mug's contents in one go, surprising even a group of burly Dwarves in the corner who were sure to be flat out on the floor after their next celebratory pitcher. In the background somebody started a slow clap, but was quickly quieted by the sound of "Ssshhh!" from the other end of the bar. Lighting his pipe, the stranger glanced around warily, as though suspecting someone was going to leap out and attack him, and then stalked almost menacingly over to an empty table in the corner.

Accustomed as she was to strangers visiting the inn, Bethberry couldn't help but stare with the rest of its occupants. She was intrigued by this person; he reminded her of someone from her past, and yet she couldn't think who. Mysteries were becoming more common in the borderland of the Horse-lords, but none so strange as this Ranger. "Who is he?" she asked herself. "And what business does he have in the Riddermark?"