[Imladris]

Maethor closely examined the piece of wax that Rauthain had handed to him and sniffed. There was but a faint fragrance that was slightly intoxicating, but the ranger could not distinguish any particular herbs. “If we only knew its purpose,” Maethor said handing the wax back to Rauthain. “But we had better not delay if we are drawing near. It would be better to overtake them before they get to a village.”

The older ranger remained silent and studied the tracks intently, his eyes fixed upon the ground and Maethor peered into the sky, watching wisps of clouds flutter upon the breath of the slight wind. He breathed deeply and whispered to Nair in Elvish explaining what they had found. He took a hunk of bread from his saddle bags, broke it in half, and tossed a part to Rauthain, who caught it with ease. “When I was young I lived in Imladris,” Maethor said quietly as the two rangers mounted and continued the hunt, “and the elves taught me much. I heard of Naiore but only recently…I suppose that she was not mentioned because of…of…what she did,” Maethor said evasively, trying not to let the horror of her deeds register in his face. “Why did she do what she did?”

“She wished to know where fear spawned. That is the question she asked her victims before she ended their misery and slew them.” Rauthain said as he dismounted and made sure of the trail. “She was always fascinated with emotions, and particularly fear. Pain intrigued her as well.”

Maethor remained silent and thought of his days in Gondor after the defeat of the Shadow. He wandered among the noble city of Gondor, the city which had withstood the might of the enemy. Some of the architect was in ruins, but that was only a dim and vague memory in his mind. The recollections of the suffering in the Houses of Healing is what haunted his mind when his thoughts turned to them. In them, he had seen the sufferings of the innocent, of the men of Gondor. The grief that had been in their eyes, their mourning for loved ones who were laid to rest in eternal slumber, the strong men who moaned in pain from their many wounds. Maethor wondered who could take pleasure in such horror, in such wretchedness. The elves were a healing race, they did not purposely inflict pain. “I wonder how Kaldir withstood it,” he said quietly. “I had not realized he had endured so much torment.”

Rauthain nodded silently and said, “It has left him scarred forever, in more ways than one.”

Maethor nodded and gazed about him, at the trees that stood in solemn nobility, the birds that flitted freely in the air, the lush scent of crushed flowers and herbs under the heavy hooves of the horses. The bright sunlight streamed from the firmament above oblivious to the lurking shadow of darkness that journeyed before them.