The Reedemers

Author’s Notes: The setting, history and characters all come from JRR Tolkien, with the exception of Rosalia, the Magdalena, and Giselle, a vampire, who are the property of Top Cow Comics.

Who is the Magdalena?
The Magdalena is always a woman of direct female descent from Mary Magdalene, given a gift for her service to Christ. As she was saved from sin, so too do her descendants have the power to save others. The Magdalena can “read” a soul and reveal all of their sins, and give the person a chance to truly repent, and achieve absolution. If the person does not choose to repent, the Magdalena is very well trained in combat, and has access to some of the more formidable weapons in the Church‘s arsenal, including the Spear of Destiny, a favored weapon of the Magdalenas.

A brief three-issue run of comics in 2000 detailed the story of Rosalia, the mother of the current Magdalena, who died defending a coven of vampires from the Church, after she discovered that they were not in fact hell spawn but simply diseased, and refused to slaughter them. It was hinted that the Magdalena was infected herself at the time of her death at the hands of the Inquisition’s soldiers, so I borrowed the concept of vampirism being a contractible disease that supercharged the body, at the expense of slowly destroying the body’s own blood supply, hence the need to “replenish”, and gave Rosalia a second chance at life. Now to find a story for her.

This particular plot bunny hopped in while pondering Elladan’s and Elrohir’s little hobby of turning orcs into shish kebabs, and how such an obsession might be unhealthy for an elf. My eye fell on my comics, and Magdalena was sitting on the top of the heap. So what would that vampiric super-nun be able to do for them? Sure she’d be a match for them in battle, a vampire being in my mind just as fast as an elf, but did they really need her abilities to get them back on the right path? No, not really, any of the canon creations could do that, and then the bunny jumped, and I knew what she was truly needed for. This is what happens when one leaves their comics lying next to their classic literature.




2639 T.A. - Imladris

Imladris was one of the few refuges not touched by the unease and strife that had gripped the land. Here, there was tranquility, and protection, its borders inviolate through the will of its Lord. Two of its inhabitants, however, found no ease by its comfort, no security in its defenses. The outer world could not be ignored, they knew that all too well. They traveled constantly, ranging throughout the land, seeking out their quarry, rarely returning to Imladris save to re-supply. So long as one orc lived, the sons of Lord Elrond would never stop hunting them.

“So Thranduil has managed to stop further encroachment into his territory?” Lord Elrond asked of his visitor, pouring two glasses of wine and handing one to his guest.

A dusty, gray hat was set on the table, as the wizard accepted the glass, “Yes indeed, it seems that the power in Dol Guldur has finally reached the point where it can push no more against him. The woods in the north resist the foulness that infects the rest. Thranduil is too well entrenched, he sacrificed area for power, power that runs as deep as the stones he dwells in.” Gandalf drank deeply, draining the glass, and handed it back to Elrond. “The horse-riders, Rohirrim, have settled in their new home as well. It seems we are in a period of regrouping and rebuilding; the only real unsettlement is in the increase of dragons in dwarfish lands.”

Elrond glanced down at his hands. “Dwarven rings inspire great treasure. Great treasure inspires great dragons.” His voice was low, as if seeking not to draw attention to his words. He looked up to meet Gandalf’s silent, understanding nod. No more needed to be said, and their conversation turned to other things.

As the two walked out onto the balcony of Elrond’s library, the sight of four horses laden with goods and saddles met their eyes. Elrond’s children were there, Arwen facing her brothers, her body stiff with disapproval. “You have been home for less than two weeks! Now you set off again, and had I not decided to ride out today, you would have left without a word!” She glanced upwards, seeing her father and the wizard approaching the railings.

Elrond leaned over the balcony. “We have a guest at our table tonight,” he said, staring down at his sons’ faces. They were both dressed for travel, and neither one looked guilty at being discovered. “Will you not stay and hear Mithrandir’s words?”

The twins looked at each other, silent communication that not even their father could hear flowed between them. Elrohir finally responded, “We want to reach Caradhras before the season changes, but one more night… will not affect us much. We can set out tomorrow.” They turned the horses back towards the stables, leaving their sister behind. She turned to look up at her father and Gandalf.

“How long Father?” she asked softly. “How long will you allow them to continue this... this obsession?”

“How can I deny them this, Daughter, when much of me wishes to join them? Is it so terrible, what they do?”

“When was the last time you sang, Father?” Arwen’s sudden question startled Elrond.

“Two nights ago,” he replied, an eyebrow lifting in puzzlement. “We sang together.”

“And when was the last time Elladan and Elrohir sang?”

An answer sprang to his lips, and then Elrond stopped. Had it been truly been that long? He searched his memory quickly, and found it to be true. “They sang… when your mother sailed for Valinor. One hundred and thirty years ago.”

Arwen nodded at the answer. She said nothing more. She did not need to.

Elrond turned to Gandalf, “How could I have missed this? Was I so wrapped in my own loss, that I failed to ease theirs? Using their vengeance to ease mine?” His sons had rarely been in Imladris after Celebrian’s departure, spending much of their time with the Dunedain in the wilds. In truth, he had not spent much time with them in the past century, more concerned with the events swirling around him.

Gandalf rested a hand on Elrond’s shoulder. “Perhaps that is why you have a daughter, to see the things that you and your sons cannot. She has opened your eyes, perhaps the two of you should discuss how to open theirs.”

2003 A.D. - London

In the poor, industrialized section of the city, the screams could not be heard. Not by anyone who cared, anyways, or who would phone the police and report the cries. A few muffled gunshots rang out, and the handful of vagrants still about hastily scurried to a safer corner. So no one saw the cloaked figure step outside a few minutes later.

Sometimes people just refuse to be saved. It saddened Rosalia, that she had to send those souls to hell, but she needed the information, and the men had fought her. She had tried to offer salvation to the dying, but only one accepted, and repented. From him, she now knew the time and place of the ceremony, and from the resistance they had put up, she knew the cult had the arcane knowledge to succeed.

Summoning demons from the ancient days. You would think that anyone clever enough to learn how to do this would also know how terribly dangerous it was. She still did not know what type of demon they were trying to raise, which would make it tricky to defeat if they succeeded before she could stop them. The woman stopped at the building’s corner, her bag still lying between the curb and the wheel of a parked lorry. Swiftly, she slid the cloak off, and unbuckled her sword belt, wrapping it all in the oversized duffel. Sliding on a denim jacket, she ruffled her long brown hair. Two more blocks put her at the taxi stop, there were two cars waiting, the driver of the second one was the man she wanted.

“Pierre,” she called, raising her hand. The driver promptly ushered her into the cab, over the protests of the other, whose car was in front.

“Sœur?” he asked nervously, not wishing to meet her eyes.

“I am not going to eat you Pierre, “ she said softly, in French. “You know I would not. And I am no longer a Sister.”

“Oui, mademoiselle, it is just that…” he broke off. “Where do you wish to go?”

“To church. Tonight I must pray.”

The church was small, and Anglican, but she could not risk being seen in a Catholic church. The trappings do not matter, only the sincerity of your prayer, she told herself as she slipped into an empty pew. Quietly she crossed herself, and descended into a light trance, her fingers silently working a rosary. As always, she imagined the sensation of being surrounded by shining white light, and heard the singing of the angels as she confessed her sins, and begged forgiveness. It comforted her, this contact, reassured her that she had not fallen from favor.

“Must you always come into these places church-girl?” The voice was louder than it needed to be, and only one person ever referred to her that way.

“Giselle,” Rosalia opened her eyes to find Giselle perched on the pew in front of her, her usual sneer firmly fixed in place. “What do you want?”

“You dead. Permanently this time. I still can’t believe Michael trusts you, not even if you are one of us now, church-girl.”

“Ah, so then what does Michael want?”

“To tell you we’re leaving. The Garduna have been seen in London, and it’s been too soon from the last time. Back when you were the one doing the hunting.” Giselle leaned in close, her lips peeling back to reveal fangs. “So did you tell them? Trying to get back into their good graces, Sister Magdalena?”

Rosalia stood, and matched Giselle’s glare. “If I was seeking to kill you Giselle, I would offer you absolution first. Would you like me to?” Her hand lifted, and a faint glow began to grow between them. Giselle flung herself away in a single giant leap, clearing the entire chapel.

“Keep your salvation church-girl!” she shrieked. “I don’t want it or your god! You may have tricked the others, but not me!” With a second leap, she was gone.

Rosalia sighed, and dropped her hand. If the Garduna were here, then she was in more danger than the others, for she had left Michael’s protection months ago. It was a calling, one that grew stronger every day, which had led her to this cult, and their plans. If the Garduna found her, the Inquisition’s soldiers would not hesitate to try to kill her again, and the fact that she was stronger and faster than any mortal only meant that they would bring the new Magdalena to try to kill her. Rosalia was not going to face off against her own daughter.

Rosalia left the church. She would need to hurry, for the dark of the moon was three days away, and she wanted to gain the lay of Glastonbury Tor before the ceremony began. She vaguely recalled that it was a powerful spot, but she wanted the particulars.

2639 T.A - Caradhras

It was two days before Elrohir and Elladan managed to escape Imladris, for the old wizard had plied them with many questions about their wanderings. Their father had not helped, pressing on matters that neither had wanted to share. Surely their father knew that they did little else but hunt orcs, why had he been so intent to learn if they had done other things? Their sister had been another thorn, she had attempted to corner them on the last evening in the Hall of Fire, and have them sing with her for Mithrandir. Neither of them wanted to sing what was in their hearts, and the twins had managed to neatly maneuver Glorfindel to sing with her. She had done so, but the look in Arwen’s eye warned them that she was not content to let the matter stand.

Now several weeks down the road, with Caradhras in site, the brothers set up their camp with silent precision. The small pocket vale was full of long grass, and a small stand of trees served as an adequate shelter, used several times before. The flet was still in good condition, needing only a minor amount of work to make it habitable again. This hunt would be important, and a secure base was necessary. With their steady predation on the orcs and goblins here, the twins had learned that one of the Great Goblins had moved in to try to secure the passes. The thought of successfully pulling down one of the greats had filled the twins minds since learning of its arrival in Caradhras.

Elrohir was making up the packs for the first foray up Caradhras while Elladan saw that the horses would be secure during their absence. The coolness of the air told the twins that the season was decidedly shifting into winter, and they could see fresh snow coating the flanks of the mountains. Fresh snow meant fresh tracks, for their quarry could not skim across the surface with the ease of the elves.

“We’ll be there by moon-dark.” Elladan said, laying down the last armful of grasses by the makeshift stable. “That should help us, we won’t be so obvious with no moon.”

Elrohir gave a grim laugh, “Not that Caradhras won’t try to shake us off with or without a moon. It has no love for elves, and it hates that it cannot bury us.”

“So it sends orcs our way instead. Considerate of it don’t you think, to save us the trouble of looking for them?”

It was on their second day of the climb when Caradhras struck. A furious storm roared in, obscuring all vision, the winds snapping and biting at the elves. The twins took shelter in an overhang, one that could not be buried under snow, for they were well used to the mountain’s hatred. After nearly a day of furious weather, the winds slacked off, and the elves clambered back out of their shelter. The sun was rapidly sinking, in a few hours it would be dark. Elrohir tilted his head, studying the imposing peak.

“Think he’s kept us pinned long enough?” Elrohir asked his brother. A twitch in his mind directed his attention further eastwards. Elladan looked up alertly as he took felt the signs they had been waiting for.

“Yes indeed. Not too imaginative are they? You’d think by now they’d have figured out we do this deliberately, but they never can resist the bait.” Elladan answered, carefully stringing his bow, warming the string so it would not snap.

“Well, we don’t leave any survivors behind to warn the others about our methods, and the mountain really isn’t very smart, just very stubborn.” A quick tap freed the ice on his hilt, and he drew his sword as he limbered up for battle. By tomorrow’s dawn there would be fewer orcs to threaten those that they loved, and for them that was all they cared about.


2003 A.D. - Glastonbury

Her research on the significance of the Tor did not please her. There was a great deal of ancient power stored at the site, and the boundary between worlds was very thin there. She was thankful that they were not using All Hallow’s Eve for the rite, for the moon time was wrong, and there would be too much attention then. Rosalia briefly considered asking help from the druids who frequented the site, but she could not afford the risk of exposure, and the more she thought on it, the more she felt that it was wrong to include others in what was her task. There was a reason why the call had come to her, and not her daughter or another defender.

She had taken a coach to Glastonbury, one of the few methods of transportation that did not require heavy ID checks or baggage searches. A simple picture ID and cash was all that they required, and her duffel was safely stored in the rack over her head. She slid a pair of dark glasses over her eyes to cut down on the over bright sun, and continued gathering her notes. They would need thirteen to speak the invocation, and there would undoubtedly be security, to keep the curious away, and deal with any external threats. They had to know about her hit at the warehouse, and suspect the possibility that someone was going to interfere.

Rosalia had fed just before departing London, from a very unrepentant would-be mugger, but the other two in his little gang had collapsed at her feet, sobbing out their forgiveness. Those two now had new chances at life, and Rosalia let them be. Their companion would wake up in a hospital though, with a very stiff neck, and a few awaiting policemen. The bus turned into Glastonbury just as the afternoon began to wane. Perfect, she had plenty of time to prepare.

Full dark was on her by the time she worked her way around to the point of the Tor where she would make her attack. Despite having only the stars to see by, she easily picked out the carefully roving guards of the cult, and the still bodies of the Tor’s true guards. Chanting was spilling down to her keen ears, speaking in a foul tongue she did not recognize. The speech was very careful and deliberate, as if the speakers themselves were not fluent, and simply reciting from rote memorization.

Fools! Stupid careless fools! Incantations were very precise things, one mis-translated word could be disastrous! Rosalia sprang from her hiding place under the trees, she could not afford to wait, not with them using an unknown element such as this. Why could they not have stuck with Latin? Latin was very precise, and widely studied. No chance of a failed understanding to allow a demon free access to the mortal realm. She had seen this happen before, a summoner had told the creature he had called to protect him from the authorities. The demon had simply killed him, thus ensuring his “protection” and then gone on a rampage through Istanbul.

Her swords were out, three guards were down, and she was more than halfway up the Tor before Rosalia was noticed. Then her speed was misjudged, and the first shots went wild. Two bullets found her, but she barely noticed, he body healing the wounds almost as fast as they were made. Then the first sorcerer struck, sending small imps to harry her.

“Domine Sancte!” Rosalia shouted, her swords flashing, and the hell spawn fell under her steel. The imps allowed enough time to let the sorcerer snap out two more spells, she dodged one, a hissing black line that smelt of acid, but the other arced effortlessly to her, blue electricity sending her spinning down twenty feet of the Tor. She regained her feet swiftly, sending a crippling kick to the knee of one guard who thought to close on her, he crumpled shrieking as his patella shattered under the force of her blow. A swiftly thrown knife silenced the sorcerer, and Rosalia began to sprint back up the Tor. It was getting very cold, and she could feel the spell beginning to part the boundary. So fast, it was opening so fast! What was that language they were using? How did it carry so much power? She knew she was running out of time, the urge within her was shrieking, she needed to be up there now.


2639 T.A - Caradhras

There were far more orcs than they had anticipated for a surface raid, nearly forty of them, but Elladan had swiftly taken out the handful of archers, and the elves had the advantage over the uncertain ground. The orcs were surprisingly disciplined though, the large one in back shouting orders, and keeping his shield high where Elladan could not score a good hit. The orcs collapsed into a tight wedge, and brought their own shields up, rendering Elladan’s bow ineffective. He switched to his blade, and began his sword work in earnest. Due to the narrowness of the path, the orcs could only come at the elves three abreast, but they used the tight quarters to push the twins back. Elladan concentrated on keeping the blades off them, while Elrohir patiently took advantage of every opening, scoring hit after hit, and the orcs were slowly falling.

**How much more room do we have to retreat?** Elrohir asked silently, deftly skewering an orc through the armpit as it tried to reach him.

**It opens up in another hundred feet, if they push us that far, they’ll be able to flank us.** was Elladan’s reply. He battered aside a strike, and suddenly ducked as a spear tried to reach through the phalanx. **Looks like we found who we were looking for, though. This is a crafty old goblin.**

Elladan spared another quick glance back, and sighted a small outcropping ten feet behind them, and six feet up. **There, brother, we can get up there, get over them, and strike directly for the old one.** Elrohir grinned fiercely. This had been a tough fight, but if his brother’s idea worked, then it would be over soon. Without the leader, the rest would be much easier prey.

The mountain trembled, and voices cut through the air. Black speech, though the sound was odd, the accent wrong. The foulness of it cut at them, even the orcs fell back in confusion, shouting back at the voices. The very air twisted around them, and it grew warmer, the air being sucking in from someplace else. A second image imposed itself over the battle, robed figures in black, calling out to them, standing in a broad circle, the elves and orcs in the center. Something was trying to lay a compulsion on them, and the elves shook it off angrily.

The orcs were staggered, whatever commands the elves had brushed off were taking a hold of them, their weapons dropping. Elladan and Elrohir wasted no time at the distraction, and cleaved into the front ranks. From the dark circle came an angry shout, a woman’s voice, and one of the black robes dropped, felled from behind. She moved with elven speed, twin swords flashing as she continued her rampage against the dark chanters.

The incantations were faltering, and the spell unraveling as Rosalia charged the alter. She could see the demons now, ranks of them in a snowy pass, engaged in a battle of their own. Their forms were dark and twisted, and they were foul to every sense. Soon they would be fully here, if she did not destroy the focus. She swept her sword across the alter, upending the various items, spilling dark fluids onto the ground. “In Nomine Domini!” she called, and her sword swept down, shattering the wooden top, destroying the careful designs. The world gave a sudden heaving snap, and Rosalia found herself standing on a snowy path, surrounded by demons.

The woman had charged through the orcs, shouting in another odd language. Her sword spun, slicing down on something not quite there, and the world shuddered back to normal. Well almost, the woman was still there, looking nearly as stunned as the orcs. With a roar, the old orc shook off whatever had been grabbing at it, and charged into the now disorganized ranks. That roused the remainder, and they closed in on the enemies in their midst. But the distraction had been enough, and the elves were rapidly cutting down the orcs, not allowing them time to regroup. The woman was making a good account of herself as well, her dark cape swirling as she fought her way clear.

The last orcs were dropping, and now it was only the old one the twins faced, with the woman behind it. Elrohir feinted high, and Elladan slashed low, spilling the creatures guts onto the snow, and it crumpled, shrieking its hate at them. Elladan stepped back as it kicked at him, snarling and spitting, trying even in its death throes to strike and kill. The woman was looking at it oddly, her swords lowered. Her gaze flickered to the elves, and Elladan could see now that she was human, though not even the Dunedain had ever moved with such speed as she had demonstrated. Elrohir stepped up to deliver the killing blow, his face a mask of hate at the orc, but before the blade landed, the woman moved with striking speed, knocking the blade aside.

Rosalia did not understand this. She should not have crossed over, but during the battle, there had been no time for thinking. The two warriors standing in front of her had souls, good ones full of a powerful light, with only a touch of darkness, darkness that was entirely directed at the thing dying at her feet. Of all the demons she had just slain, this one was different, no less black in nature, but… NO! One of the warriors had moved in for the kill, his face hateful at the thing on the ground. Without a thought Rosalia blocked it, her arm straining at the strength of the swordsman. Her eyes met his and she felt her lips move.

“No.” The woman spoke, her words odd. Elrohir reared back, startled at the intensity of her eyes. He did not understand her speech, but her eyes said it all. She would not permit the kill.

“It’s an orc! It is one of them!” He gestured to the others lying dead in the snow, black blood seeping everywhere. “You killed them with us! This is the leader, and it is dying too! Let me finish the thing!” His brother was at his side, supporting him.

“No.” Again she said the strange word, and she turned to look down at the dying orc, now scrabbling to tear at her leg.

Rosalia stared down at it, meeting it’s black eyes. It hissed and shrieked at her, in the same tongue as the cultist had used. It was dying, dying slowly, so why had she stopped the dark-haired ones? The answer came, because this one dying here is different. It’s soul was black as pitch, the vilest thing she had ever looked upon, but this one, of all the dead and dying demons around her, had a soul. And I am the Magdalena, and I offer redemption to souls. She reached down, and her hand exploded in light. “Non nobis Domine, sed Tuo Nomine da gloriam ".

Elladan was about to step forward, and drag the woman away from the orc when she spoke again, her strange words flowing over him and his brother. Light erupted from her, pure incredible light. The orc was screaming, a high terrible whine, and the visions came. Terrible things, dark and evil acts of hate, murder, and destruction flowed from it, all the things it had done in it’s twisted life. The visions flowed now in a torrent, for the orc was truly one of the Great Goblins, one of the oldest of its kind. Then came the feelings of agony, terrible tortures that had been worked upon it by a dark and looming form, twisting and warping the thing. There at the very core, was the true thing, so very young and lost, drowned in the sea of hate.

**Do you repent of your sins, and embrace the Light?** the voice surrounded Elladan and Elrohir, coming from the woman, but not her at the same time. This was something far grander, and deeper, reaching out to the dying orc.

**YES! Please set me free!** The cry was unmistakably from the orc, and they could see it reaching upwards to the light, straining for something that it had begged for so many ages past. For a brief moment Elladan and Elrohir heard a triumphant chorus, one that struck them to their very core. For one shining heartbeat, they heard the Valar sing, and the soul fled to them, cradled in their song, and the greater light beyond them. The light faded from their eyes, withdrawing back into the woman, who was now seated in the snow, cradling the head of a dead elf, its golden hair streaming in the snow and blood. The elf’s eyes were wide open, fixed on some distant view, a look of profound joy on the cold, dead face.

The woman was weeping, tears of joy, as she whispered her strange words. Elrohir turned, his cheeks wet, to see his brother with tears of his own flowing down his face. Even Caradhras was silent in the aftermath as across Middle-earth, various beings all noted the flare of power, and wondered what had happened, and why. Already, messengers and spies began to stir to their various master's desire to uncover this mystery.



Domine Sancte
O, Holy Lord
In Nomine Domini
In the Name of the Lord
Non nobis Domine, sed Tuo Nomine da gloriam
Not to us, O Lord, but to Thy Name give glory

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