Chapter 19: The Wanderer
Three orc bodies lay at the eastern perimeter.
The guard who found them—one of Gorlim's men, still learning the settlement's patrol routes—had been smart enough to sound the alert without disturbing the scene. Now I crouched beside the corpses, studying what remained.
Clean kills. Two arrows through the throat, one through the eye. Grouped tight, fired fast, from someone who knew exactly where to aim.
"Elven make."
Maeglin held up one of the recovered arrows. The fletching was distinctive—different from anything Bree produced, different from the Ranger arrows Dírhael had left. Longer shaft, thinner head, crafted with a precision that spoke of centuries of practice.
"Elves," I repeated. The word felt strange in my mouth.
Oliver Smith had read about them. Aldric's body carried half-remembered stories from childhood. But neither had expected to find evidence of their presence three miles from the settlement.
"These orcs were scouts," Maeglin continued. "Moving toward us. Someone intercepted them before they could report back."
"How long ago?"
"Hours. Maybe less. The blood's still wet."
I stood, scanning the tree line. Dense forest stretched east toward the mountains. Shadows within shadows. If an elf was out there watching, I'd never see them.
"Double the patrols. I want—"
Movement.
Not from the trees. From beside them.
She stepped into the clearing like she'd materialized from air itself. Tall—taller than me, taller than most men I'd met. Red hair caught the fading light. Eyes that held more years than any human could carry.
An elf. Here. Now.
"You found my kills." Her voice was cool, professional. No warmth, but no hostility either. "Good. It saves me the trouble of finding your camp."
My hand had dropped to my sword without conscious thought. I forced it away.
"You're the one who killed these orcs?"
"Obviously." She studied me with the same measuring gaze Maeglin used on terrain—evaluating, categorizing, deciding. "You're the one building in the Weather Hills. The one they call Aldric."
"You have me at a disadvantage."
"I usually do." A thin smile, there and gone. "Tauriel. I've been hunting orc bands in this region for some time. Your settlement is new. Growing. That makes you interesting."
"Interesting how?"
"Orcs follow patterns. They probe, they test, they attack what's weak and avoid what's strong." She gestured at the corpses. "These were probing. Looking for gaps in your defenses. The fact that Ulfang is sending scouts means he's taking you seriously."
The name hit like a punch.
"You know about Ulfang?"
"I know about many things." She turned toward the settlement, not waiting for invitation. "Show me your walls. I'll tell you where you'll die."
[AMON HEN-DÎR — EVENING]
Tauriel walked the perimeter like a general inspecting troops.
She noted everything—the height of walls, the spacing of watchtowers, the angle of approach from every direction. Her comments were delivered with the same flat precision.
"Your western gate is too wide. Two fighters can't hold it."
"Your archer positions lack cover. They'll be picked off before the assault begins."
"This section of palisade is six inches lower than the rest. That's where they'll put ladders."
I followed, taking mental notes, trying not to bristle at the criticism. She wasn't wrong about any of it.
"You're thorough," I said finally.
"I've watched settlements fall. I've watched them rise. The ones that survive pay attention to details." She paused at the northern wall, running her fingers across the timber. "This wood is good. Arnor-era craftsmanship in the foundation. Someone knew what they were building."
"My ancestors, supposedly."
"Supposedly." Her eyes met mine—ancient, evaluating. "You carry yourself differently than most who claim noble blood. Less arrogance. More calculation."
"Is that a compliment?"
"An observation." She resumed walking. "Your archers. How many?"
"Fifteen with real training. Another twenty who can hit a target at fifty paces."
"Against Ulfang's forces, you'll need every one of them better than that." We'd reached the training yard. She picked up a practice bow, tested the draw. "Your people practice daily?"
"When there's time."
"Make time. Every arrow that misses is a life you won't save."
She spent an hour demonstrating archery techniques to the handful of fighters who'd gathered to watch. Her movements were fluid, effortless—centuries of practice compressed into muscle memory so deep it seemed like instinct.
I watched. Learned. Tried not to think about what it meant that an elf had wandered into my domain.
[WATCHTOWER — NIGHT]
I found her on the highest platform, staring at the stars.
She didn't turn as I climbed the ladder, didn't acknowledge my presence. Just stood silently, face turned skyward, something old and sad in her expression.
I stood beside her. Didn't speak. The stars wheeled overhead—the same stars I'd studied since waking in this world, trying to remember which constellations belonged to Middle-earth and which to the half-remembered sky of Oliver Smith's childhood.
"You build well, for a mortal."
Her voice broke the silence after long minutes.
"Thank you."
"It wasn't entirely a compliment." She finally looked at me. "Mortals who build often die before they see their work finished. The world takes what you create and grinds it down. Arnor. Gondor. Númenor. All of them built. All of them fell."
"Everything falls eventually."
"Yes." Something flickered in her eyes. "But some things fall harder than others."
I thought of the claiming ritual—standing on broken stones, speaking words that connected me to a bloodline I'd inherited from a stranger. Building a settlement on the ruins of a kingdom that had died before Oliver Smith's great-great-grandparents were born.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "Not the hunting—I understand that. But why this region? Why now?"
Long silence.
"I was banished from my home," she said finally. "Long ago. For reasons that no longer seem as important as they once did." Her voice carried centuries of weariness. "Since then, I've wandered. Fought. Tried to make the darkness a little smaller wherever I found it."
"And you found it here."
"There's always darkness here. The Weather Hills have been contested territory since before your ancestors built their first walls." She turned back to the stars. "Ulfang is different. He's not just raiding—he's building. Consolidating. Creating something that could threaten more than isolated settlements."
"You've been watching him?"
"For months. He's patient. Strategic. He learns from his enemies." Her jaw tightened. "He'll be harder to kill than the orcs you've faced before."
I filed the information away. Another piece of the puzzle. Another warning about the enemy closing in.
"Will you help us?"
The question hung in the air.
"I hunt alone," Tauriel said finally. "Have for years. Alliances complicate things."
"So does dying."
A sharp laugh—the first genuine emotion I'd seen from her. "You're not wrong." She moved toward the ladder. "I'll consider it. Your people fight well. You lead well. That matters."
"And if you decide to help?"
"Then you'll see me again." She descended the ladder with inhuman grace. "If I decide otherwise, you'll never know I was here."
She was gone before dawn.
I found her tracks leading east—then nothing. No trail, no sign, just forest swallowing whatever passage she'd made.
"An elf," Halbarad said, standing beside me at the gate. "In the Weather Hills. I never thought I'd live to see it."
"She might not return."
"She might." The old Ranger's voice held something I couldn't quite identify. "Elves are strange. They move to rhythms mortals can't hear. But when they commit to something..." He shook his head. "When they commit, they don't waver."
I stared at the tree line where she'd vanished.
An elf had evaluated my settlement and found it wanting, but worth preserving. She'd given advice that might save lives. She'd hinted at help without promising it.
The world kept getting stranger.
But strange, I was learning, wasn't always bad.
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