The young Ranger, whose eyes were clear and bright, spoke casually as he removed his cloak, hung it to one side, and crouched down beside the fireplace.
"Make some room for me."
His companion rubbed his hands together and squeezed in, nearly pressing himself against the hearth.
Seeing how chilled the two of them appeared, the old man fetched several logs, tossed them into the fire, and rekindled the flames.
The warm hearth radiated heat, slowly drying the moisture from their clothes.
"I'm beginning to miss home already."
The two young Rangers chatted idly, words flowing back and forth without much thought.
The old man remained silent, dipping a clean cloth in warm water and gently wiping the pale face of the child still lying unconscious in bed.
This movement quickly caught the Rangers' attention.
They exchanged a glance, and at a signal from one, the other stood and went over to investigate.
An unconscious boy, his eyelids twitching faintly, lips bearing a purplish tinge, face deathly pale, and breathing so shallow it was barely noticeable.
"This is Pete," the old man broke the silence himself. "He was perfectly well just yesterday. But today he went out, got caught in the storm, and when he returned, he's been like this, unconscious ever since."
"Appears to be some form of ailment."
Of course he was afflicted.
But no matter how hard they tried to recall their training, neither could identify what kind of sickness it might be. In the end, they classified it under the broad category of "poisoning."
They couldn't pinpoint the exact symptoms, but that hardly mattered.
The Ranger who had stood up patted his travel pack and pulled out a bottle of milk.
"Perhaps this will aid him."
"Milk?" The old man looked skeptical.
"Indeed, milk, but not ordinary milk. This was blessed by our Lord himself. It's enchanted milk, capable of curing all kinds of illness and neutralizing poisons."
"Magic..." the old man murmured, and a flicker of hope stirred in his heart.
Magic, for common folk, existed only in legends and tales. But who in this world didn't yearn for miracles?
The old man nodded solemnly to the Rangers, choosing to place his trust in them.
He could only trust them.
There was nothing else left to attempt, Pete's condition was grave.
"Whoever watches over us... please, bless Pete... let him wake..."
The old man whispered as he carefully poured the milk into Pete's mouth. His hope was not in vain.
With the last drop swallowed, Pete's face visibly regained color, his lips losing their purplish hue, gradually returning to a healthy shade. At the same time, his breathing grew steadier, stronger.
"By the Valar, he's truly recovering!"
The old man was so excited he hardly knew what to do with his hands.
"Thank you, thank you..."
"No need for thanks, it's our duty."
One of the Rangers was responding when suddenly a shadow flickered past the window. Pete's almost-opening eyelids stilled, his complexion turned pale once more.
Everything reverted to how it had been.
The old man froze, and both Rangers frowned, sensing something deeply amiss.
"The milk... actually ceased working?"
"In our Lord's manual... there's mention of this phenomenon."
One of them recalled a term he had studied and said thoughtfully, "The milk didn't fail. Judging from what we witnessed, it certainly worked, but only momentarily. That suggests the affliction plaguing him might have a 'beacon' effect, something nearby is maintaining the curse."
"That's... bizarre," the other Ranger muttered, shaking his head.
Lightning split the dark clouds, a flash of white streaking across the sky.
"Aaah!!!"
Phil, the other child who had been silently watching all this time, suddenly screamed. He pointed at the window, trembling too violently to speak.
Boom!
"What in Middle-earth is that?!"
One Ranger shouted, drawing the sword at his waist in one swift motion. The other followed his gaze, and there, having appeared at some unknown moment, a dark, terrifying visage appeared at the very center of the window.
It just hovered there, staring in, its hollow eye sockets glowing with cold, malevolent light. Its skin was greenish and shriveled, its jutting jaw making it appear to be nothing but bone and skin.
Below the head was a mass of pitch-black shadow of unknown substance, presumably its body.
Thud.
A twisted, oversized hand slapped against the window frame. The creature forced out a deep, rasping laugh from its throat, and everyone inside felt the temperature plummet. A heavy dread settled over their hearts.
"Begone!"
The young man with the drawn sword mustered his courage and thrust toward the window frame. The next instant, lightning flashed, and the monstrous face vanished.
"I think I know what's wrong with him now."
The other Ranger grabbed his shoulder, preventing him from rushing out the door.
"You didn't recognize that creature?"
"What?"
"A barrow-wight."
Thump.
The young man's heart gave a violent jolt. He steadied himself, regaining composure.
"That's... the first enemy our Lord ever faced?"
A surge of battle-spirit rose in his chest.
"Not to be underestimated, but certainly not to be feared!"
They exchanged a glance, and both understood the other's intent.
Fight.
"Ah..."
Only now did the old man behind them recover from the shock. He attempted to stop them, but it was too late.
This was no longer something he could interfere with.
"May fortune follow your steps," the old man murmured as he watched the two figures disappear into the rain, his body still trembling, clearly not yet recovered from the fright.
The two young men didn't even retrieve their cloaks before dashing outside. The rain hadn't ceased for a moment.
Too reckless... and who in Middle-earth had taught them such boldness?
---
Boom!
Thunder rolled endlessly.
That malevolent laughter spread over the entire village, rousing one sleeping person after another, yet no lights flickered to life.
In the darkness, none had the guts to move.
The grating sound gradually faded into the distance, and the two figures followed in pursuit, all the way to a grove on the southern edge of the village.
"Where did it go?!"
One Ranger shouted into the rain.
"I didn't see it!"
The other called back.
Whoosh.
Suddenly, a shadow swept past a tree trunk. Quick-eyed and swift-handed, one of them drew and loosed an arrow in a heartbeat.
Swish!
The arrow pierced through the shadow, striking deep into a branch.
"Stop!"
The other halted him.
"Ordinary weapons have no effect on such creatures."
"Then..."
The bowman silently put away his arrow and, like his companion, drew the longsword at his waist.
A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer glowed along the blade's edge.
"Our Lord watches over us."
They murmured in unison.
Roar!
All at once, a tremendous sound erupted from behind, followed by the crunch of soil and branches being crushed. Both men instinctively rolled to opposite sides.
When they turned back, they saw the ground torn open into a deep furrow, and a towering, withered shadow, several meters in height, wrenching its twisted hand out of the earth. Flinging mud aside, it lunged straight at them.
It gave them no time to react.
Clang!
The enchanted blade met the barrow-wight's ring-adorned hand, the grating friction making their teeth ache.
By the grace of the Valar, at least their Lord's blessed sword could make contact with it.
The Ranger blocking the attack felt a wave of relief.
But even so, under the barrow-wight's crushing force, the young apprentice Ranger was quickly being overwhelmed. The monster's hand pressed the sword down, poised to strike at his neck.
"I need aid!" he shouted.
Whoosh.
His companion charged in, his sword slamming into the barrow-wight. He managed to force it back, but only left a shallow scratch on its arm.
"It's as resilient as an iron golem," he observed grimly.
"I fear we may be in serious trouble."