Chapter 15: The Warg Riders
The alarm came at dawn.
Cedric rolled from his bedroll with his sword clearing the sheath before his eyes had fully opened. Two weeks in Lothlorien had restored his body's strength, but the Ranger's combat instincts remained sharp as ever — sharper, perhaps, for the rest.
"Eastern border," Haldir said, dropping from a rope-ladder with Elven grace. "Orc scouts on Wargs. The Lady requests the assistance of those who can fight."
Aragorn was already moving. Boromir a step behind. Legolas strung his bow in a single fluid motion, and even Gimli seemed to shake off sleep faster than his Dwarven bulk should have allowed.
Warg scouts, Cedric's meta-knowledge confirmed. Saruman is probing Lothlorien's defenses. Testing for weaknesses.
He won't find any.
But the Pact stirred uneasily in his chest. It had spent two weeks contracted and quiet, conserving itself against Lothlorien's light, but the prospect of combat brought it closer to the surface. Even here, in the heart of Elven sanctity, darkness could find a foothold.
[COMBAT OPPORTUNITY DETECTED]
[WARNING: HEROISM WILL INCUR COST]
[PACT SUPPRESSED — PUNISHMENT CAPACITY: REDUCED]
The system notation flickered at the edges of his awareness. The Pact couldn't punish him fully within Lothlorien's borders, but it could still make its displeasure known.
Cedric drew his sword anyway.
They ran through the golden wood in formation — Haldir's patrol ahead, the Fellowship mixed among them, the trees blurring past in a rush of silver and gold. The eastern border was three miles from Caras Galadhon, where Lothlorien's power thinned against the wild lands beyond.
Cedric smelled the Wargs before he saw them.
The beasts had a scent like rotten meat and wet fur, carried on a wind that shouldn't have been able to penetrate the forest's sanctity. Their riders would be Orcs — Misty Mountain breed, smaller than Uruk-hai but vicious in their own right.
"Twenty riders," Legolas reported, his Elven eyes piercing the morning mist. "Scouts, not a raiding party. They test our boundaries."
"Then we will teach them the folly of testing Lothlorien," Haldir said.
The Elves spread into a crescent formation, their bows singing before Cedric could properly register the enemy's position. Three Wargs went down in the first volley, their riders pinned to their bodies by Elven arrows.
The rest charged.
Cedric met them alongside Aragorn, their blades moving in coordination that required no words. Two weeks of training together, of sharing watches and fighting stances, had built an understanding between them that went beyond spoken instruction. When Aragorn advanced, Cedric covered his flank. When Cedric pivoted, Aragorn was already filling the gap.
This is what brotherhood feels like, Cedric thought, driving his blade into a Warg's throat. Not the Pact's calculation. Not the marks measuring betrayal value. Just—
A Warg rider lunged from his right, and Boromir's blade intercepted it before Cedric could react.
"Mind your flank!" the Gondorian shouted, but his grin took the sting from the words. Blood streaked his cheek from a glancing blow, but his eyes were alight with battle-joy.
"My thanks!" Cedric returned the favor a moment later, his sword taking an Orc's head as it leaped for Boromir's unprotected back.
The Morgul-marks blazed in his vision — Aragorn's five-point brilliance, Boromir's steady glow, even Legolas's crystalline wariness-touched-with-respect. The Pact noted each one with its endless calculation, measuring the strengthening bonds for their eventual harvest.
But for once, Cedric didn't care about the calculation.
He was fighting beside brothers. He was protecting them and being protected. And the fierce joy of it drowned out the Pact's whispers entirely.
[HEROIC ACTIONS: MULTIPLE]
[CONSEQUENCE: TIER 1 PUNISHMENT — SUPPRESSED BY ELVEN SANCTITY]
[REDUCED TO: MINOR DISCOMFORT]
The rune-burn flickered across his palms, barely perceptible compared to what it would have been outside the Golden Wood. The Pact registered its displeasure and could do nothing about it.
This, Cedric thought, is why I'm fighting.
Not for the Pact's approval. Not to avoid its punishment.
For them.
The battle ended as quickly as it had begun.
The Warg riders who survived the initial engagement fled eastward, pursued by Elven arrows until they passed beyond even Legolas's sight. The Fellowship stood among the fallen, catching their breath, counting themselves lucky that the cost had been measured only in minor wounds.
Gimli leaned on his axe, his chest heaving. "Seventeen," he announced. "Though I'll grant you, Master Elf, the first three were hardly fair — they hadn't even reached us yet."
"Precision is not unfairness," Legolas replied, but there was warmth beneath the words. "Nineteen, by my count. You are slowing down, Master Dwarf."
"Slowing—" Gimli sputtered. "I'll show you slowing next time, pointy-eared—"
"Enough." Aragorn's voice cut through the banter, but he was smiling — the first genuine smile Cedric had seen from him since Moria. "We fought well. All of us."
His hand found Cedric's shoulder, gripped briefly, and released.
"Well fought, kinsman."
The words landed like a benediction. Cedric's throat tightened.
Kinsman. He called me kinsman after Crebain warnings and midnight watches and Moria's darkness. After watching me weep for Gandalf on the eastern stairs. After—
After noticing that I stood still when I could have reached for a falling wizard.
And he still calls me kinsman.
The guilt and the gratitude twisted together into something he couldn't name.
"Well fought," Cedric managed. "All of us."
They returned to Caras Galadhon as the sun climbed toward noon.
Haldir walked beside Cedric for part of the journey, his earlier wariness tempered by what he'd witnessed on the border. The Elf didn't speak for a long while, but when he did, his words carried weight.
"You fight with purpose," Haldir observed. "Not merely skill. There is... protection in your stance. A willingness to place yourself between danger and those you care for."
The assessment was accurate. Too accurate.
"The Dúnedain learn early that service means sacrifice," Cedric said.
"Perhaps." Haldir's eyes held his for a moment. "But I have seen Rangers before. Your service carries a deeper shadow." He paused. "I mean no accusation. Only observation. The Lady will see more than I can."
He moved ahead before Cedric could respond, leaving the words hanging in the golden air.
Galadriel, Cedric thought. She hasn't summoned me yet. Hasn't spoken to me directly.
But Haldir's right. She will.
And when she does, she'll see everything.
That evening, the Fellowship gathered around a fire in one of Lothlorien's many glades.
The battle's aftermath had faded into the particular warmth that followed shared survival — the laughter that came easier after danger had passed, the bonds that strengthened when tested. Gimli and Legolas continued their kill-count dispute with theatrical outrage that fooled no one. Merry and Pippin pestered Boromir about Gondorian fighting techniques. Sam sat close to Frodo, the two Hobbits quiet but present, drawing comfort from the company.
Cedric sat among them with his back against a mallorn trunk, and for a handful of breaths, the Pact's hunger faded so far that he almost forgot it existed.
This is real, he thought. These bonds. This warmth. These people.
The marks in my vision measure how much their love is worth to destroy. But the love itself—
The love is real.
He looked at each face lit by firelight. Aragorn, whose five-point mark blazed with brotherhood he hadn't earned. Boromir, whose warrior-bond carried threads of Ring-corruption that would break him if nothing changed. Pippin, whose trust was so pure it hurt to look at directly. Frodo, whose exhaustion grew daily beneath a burden that would crush most Men.
I want to save them, Cedric realized. Not because the Pact values their destruction. Not because my meta-knowledge says they survive.
Because they're good. Because they matter. Because they're the best thing in this world, and I don't want to be the thing that breaks them.
The thought sat in his chest beside the Pact's cold presence, and for the first time since the cairn, it didn't feel like a contradiction.
The Pact wanted him to love them genuinely so the betrayal would hurt more.
He did love them genuinely.
But maybe — just maybe — that genuine love could become something the Pact hadn't planned for. A weapon turned against its master. A bond strong enough to break the chains.
Or maybe, the darker voice whispered, that's exactly what it wants you to believe.
He didn't know. He couldn't know. The Pact's design was older than his understanding, and its patience exceeded his ability to outlast it.
But sitting among his companions in the Golden Wood, watching firelight play across the faces of people he had come to care for, Cedric made a decision.
I will not betray them.
Whatever the Pact offers. Whatever it threatens.
These are my brothers. My Fellowship.
And I will find a way to save them all.
The Ring of Barahir pulsed once against his finger — cold, but somehow less accusatory than before. As if the ancient heirloom had sensed the resolution taking shape in his heart.
Tomorrow, Galadriel would summon him. Tomorrow, her Mirror would show him what he was becoming.
But tonight, surrounded by his friends, Cedric allowed himself to hope.
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