Prologue: The Haunting Past

“Ada?  What’s wrong?”

The dark-haired man halted his seemingly endless pacing to kneel before his son.  “Do you remember what I told you about Nana having a baby?”

The three-year-old nodded eagerly.  “You said the baby was inside Nana, and soon he would come out and I could play with him.”

The man smiled.  “Today, the baby has decided to come out.”

“Can I see him?” the boy asked, excitement widening his blue eyes.

“Not just yet.  Besides, you might have a baby sister.”

“Nah.  I told Nana I wanted a brother!”

A new voice interrupted the conversation.  “My lord!”

With a sigh, the father stood and turned.  In that moment, mindset, posture, and bearing changed from father to King.

“My lord Elessar, the delegation from Rohan has arrived,” the messenger announced.

Aragorn nodded.  “See that they are given comfortable quarters, and ask the Steward to please pass along my apologies for not greeting them myself.”

“At once, my liege.”  The messenger bowed quickly and hurried away.

Aragorn turned back to his son.  “Now, Eldarion, go find your nursemaid.  She is probably searching for you.”

“I don’t wanna!” Eldarion complained.

Aragorn held up a warning finger.  “Eldarion, you do not have to like it, but you must obey your father.  Go find your nursemaid.”

The three-year-old trotted away, and Aragorn watched him from a distance, ensuring that the boy followed his father’s orders.  Only when his son was safely under the care of the maid did Aragorn turn his footsteps back toward the chambers of his queen.

“My liege,” one of Arwen’s maids greeted him at the door to the Queen’s chamber, “You have a beautiful new daughter!”

Pure, ecstatic joy rushed through his veins.  “Let me see her,” he commanded.

For once, however, his order was not obeyed.  “Not just yet, my liege,” the maid said respectfully.  “You shall be allowed inside soon enough.”

Though he was unused to his commands being denied, Aragorn obediently left the doorway and resumed his pacing.

It seemed an entire month had gone by when the maid reappeared around the corner.  “The Lady Arwen is asking for you, my liege.”

Four of Aragorn’s long strides brought him into his wife’s chamber.  Arwen sat propped up against several pillows, a white-wrapped bundle in her arms.  Her usually pale skin had drained of nearly all color, but, to Aragorn’s eyes, she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her.  He stopped merely a pace inside the door, content for a long moment to simply drink in the beauty of the woman he had married.  “Undómiel,” he whispered.

Arwen raised her deep blue eyes to his, laughing at his hesitation.  “Estel, come greet your daughter.”

A light of wonder in his eyes, Aragorn knelt beside the bed and gazed for the first time into the red face of his sleeping newborn daughter.  “I shall name her after you, Lady Undómiel,” he said lovingly.  “I shall name her Dómiel, for, though her beauty shall be wondrous, it shall be outshone by that of her mother, Undómiel.”

Arwen smiled gently at her beloved.  “So be it.  She shall be Dómiel of the house of Telcontar.”

It was fortunate for the warrior’s pride in Aragorn that no witnesses lingered in the room, as two silent tears of joy ran from his eyes.  “My daughter,” he whispered.

One year later

“My liege!  My liege!”  A soldier of Gondor sprinted through the corridors of the palace as fast as his legs would carry him.

Hearing the cry, Aragorn stood wearily from his seat.  “I am here.”

“My liege, the city is under siege by orcs!”

Those words stripped all clouds of weariness from Aragorn’s body, and he leapt to his feet, hand flying to Andúril, sheathed at his side.  “Call all the men to the city walls!” he cried as he ran from the room.

When the king arrived at the walls, he found, much to his relief, that the soldier had severely overestimated.  A small raiding party of orcs, perhaps three score in size, had apparently blundered upon the city and was merely covering their own retreat.  By the time Aragorn arrived, a bare dozen of the loathsome creatures could be seen in the light of the torches that lit the walls.

“Any injuries?” the king asked the captain of his guard.

“None that have been reported, my lord,” the captain replied.

“Double the watch this night,” Aragorn ordered.  “At the slightest sign that they may have returned, send for me immediately.”  Not waiting for the captain’s reply, he strode back along the wall, anxious to ensure that all his men were safe.

“My liege!”

One of Arwen’s maids threw herself at the king’s feet.  “My liege, the Queen begs you to come to her in haste.  Your daughter, Dómiel, has vanished, as has her nursemaid!  The Lady is sick with worry...”

Aragorn did not stop long enough to acknowledge the woman.  His long strides sending him flying across the ground, he ran at full speed toward Arwen’s quarters.  He found his wife running through the garden courtyard, tears pooling in her rich blue eyes.  “My lord!” she cried when she saw Aragorn.  “Estel, have you found her?”

“Where did the nursemaid take her?” Aragorn asked quickly.

“Towards the wall, I believe,” Arwen replied in despair.  “She asked to take Dómiel out-of-doors to breathe the fresh air.  Then, I heard the horns blow, and the cries of battle, and...”

“Say no more, my beloved.”  Aragorn rapidly drew his wife into his arms and placed a swift kiss upon her forehead.  “I shall find our daughter!”  With this vow, he ran back towards the wall.

The little princess’ nursemaid was easily found - she lay atop the wall, an orc arrow through her chest.  But the child was not with her.  Aragorn led a party of men to search the area beyond the wall for any trace of his daughter.

It was just inside the wall that Arwen met him.  The King carried a small form gently in his arms. 

“Dómiel?” Arwen whispered.

Aragorn looked at his wife, fury rising within him.  “She is alive,” he stated frankly, “but she is...permanently scarred from the fall.”

Later that night, husband and wife embraced each other tenderly as they stood by the bedside of their daughter, stricken with the terrible knowledge that no further help could be offered her.  Only one bit of knowledge consoled them - Dómiel’s life had been spared.  What sort of a life she would now live, neither parent could tell.

Four years later

“My lord?”

Aragorn sighed and raised his eyes from his work, prepared to answer yet another of the unending questions that it seemed only the king himself could answer properly.  What met his eyes, however, brought a smile to his otherwise grim face.  “My friends!” he exclaimed, rising to meet them.  “Welcome!”

His two guests – Legolas and Gimli - wore similar smiles as each gripped his forearm in a companionable greeting. 

“It has been long since I have been given the pleasure of housing you within my walls!” Aragorn said.

“Too long, Aragorn,” Legolas amended.

“Indeed.  But, come!  I will have quarters made up for you, and you must speak with my dear family,” Aragorn instructed.  “I know Arwen shall be delighted to see you both again, and you must, of course, meet the children.”

“Of course!” Gimli replied.  “The last time we had the pleasure of seeing him, Eldarion was so small he could have fit on my arm!”

“And that is quite a feat, when one considers the length of that appendage,” Legolas retorted dryly.

Gimly merely snorted in response.

Aragorn laughed aloud, for the first time all day, at the good-natured bickering between the two dear friends.  Stopping a servant, he inquired as to the location of his family.  Being informed that they were all in the gardens, he led his friends there.

True to Aragorn’s prediction, a smile lit Arwen’s face the instant she saw the trio.  “Legolas and Gimli!” she exclaimed.  “It is indeed a pleasure to lay eyes on you once more!”

Both elf and dwarf bowed respectfully to the Queen of Gondor.  “It is our pleasure, my lady,” Legolas answered for them both.

“I was hoping to allow our children to greet our friends,” Aragorn informed Arwen softly. 

“Of course,” his wife replied.  Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Here they are.”

Three children, accompanied by a nursemaid, rounded the corner at a rapid pace, having to slide to a halt when they saw the party.

“Children,” Aragorn said proudly.  “Allow me to present my old friend Legolas and Gimli.  And this is my son Eldarion, my elder daughter Dómiel, and my younger daughter Gilraen.”

Legolas and Gimli both bowed respectfully to the prince and princesses, who returned the courtesy.  Both elf and dwarf stood still for a moment, studying the three royal children, who stared intently back, having heard many stories of Legolas and Gimli, dear friends who rode one steed and accomplished many wondrous feats, both during the War of the Ring and after.

Eldarion, the heir, was a striking young lad of seven now, with short-cropped dark hair.  He gazed through eyes the color of his mother’s, though the thoughtful light in them clearly came from his father, as did his stance, solid and unyielding, even in youth.  Gilraen was the youngest at two, but already an elven light shone from her features, marking her clearly as being the offspring of an elven mother.

It was on Dómiel, however, that Legolas and Gimli allowed their gaze to linger the longest.  The five-year-old’s face shone with the fairness of the elves, but her gray eyes reflected the line of men.  The most noticeable characteristic of the child was that she was still held in her nursemaid’s arms, despite her age.  The loose skirt she wore veiled her small legs from mortal sight, but Legolas the elf could sense a shadow upon her small body.

“You can sense it?” Aragorn asked him softly.

Legolas nodded, having heard about the girl’s accident.  “Might I examine the injury?”

“Of course.”  Aragorn lifted his daughter into his own arms, dismissed the nursemaid and the other children, and sat the girl down upon one of the myriad benches in the garden.  Slowly, he drew back the folds of the girl’s skirt, exposing her feet and ankles.

Only an act of supreme will prevented Legolas from flinching at the sight.  The poor child’s ankles were twisted into angles never meant for them to be in, causing the feet to be horribly twisted as well.  Clearly, the girl had never walked on her deformed feet, for the legs were thin and weak.

“They do not hurt me,” Dómiel said, speaking for the first time.  Catching Legolas’ surprised glance, she laughed.  “Many people who look at my feet ask me that.”

“You are quite wise for one so young,” Gimli replied, chuckling slightly at his friend’s discomposure.

“Thank you,” Dómiel said sincerely, sending the remainder of the group into laughter, as well.

“Come, Dómiel,” Aragorn said.  “It is time for you to rejoin your siblings.”

“Yes, father,” the girl responded obediently.  After bidding her mother and her father’s friends farewell, she allowed herself to be lifted once more into her father’s strong arms and carried away.

Legolas and Gimli departed from Gondor only three days later, with promises to return quickly.  They made good on their vow a mere three weeks after their departure.  Upon their return, they presented Aragorn with a gift for his daughter, Dómiel - a specially crafted saddle.

“The child cannot walk,” Legolas explained, “but, using this, she may ride and travel independently of another’s assistance.”

Gimli eagerly showed Aragorn the special features the friends had crafted into the saddle - the special back-rest that would assist the girl in keeping her balance, the system of straps which would hold the twisted legs in place, and the carefully crafted stirrups, which were turned in such a way as to support the girl’s malformed feet.

“We are aware that she will not be able to ride for some years yet,” Legolas finished, “but, when she is of age, we hope she will at least find some measure of freedom on horseback.”

Aragorn embraced each of his old friends firmly.  “Today you have blessed both my daughter and myself.  I will ensure that Dómiel knows her benefactors, and I am certain this gift shall be well-used.”

“That is our only request,” Gimli stated.  “If she does not use it, it is a wasted gift!”

“Use it she shall, Master Dwarf,” Aragorn responded.  “You have given my daughter the gift of freedom, and she will thank you for it when the time comes for her to accept it!”

Author’s Note: Sorry this is taking me so long.  I’m at a crazy-busy internship with really sporadic internet access.  I promise I’m trying!

Chapter One: Bonds That Can’t Be Broken

Ten years later

The proud City of Gondor sat in splendor, shimmering in the revealing light of the late afternoon sun.  Along its walls, only the black forms of sentinels and watchmen marred its white beauty.  However, two of the dark figures atop the noble wall were neither sentinel nor watchman.

“You seem weary, my beloved.”  The voice was low and gentle, like waves on the sea, and spoke in a language few mortal men comprehended.

“Indeed I am, my Lady Undómiel,” King Elessar replied in the same tongue to his elven wife.  “I am weary of the endless meetings and diplomatic discussions.  I long...”  He trailed off, realizing that he was complaining, an action he despised in others.

Arwen finished his thought.  “You long to be Strider once more, roaming freely about Middle Earth doing battle yourself rather than ordering others into battle.”

An almost physical feeling of warmth washed through the king’s body at his wife’s words.  She understands, he realized.  Gratefully, he drew her into a firm embrace.  “Indeed, my lady.  You have voiced my thoughts to perfection.”

Youthful laughter drew the couple’s eyes away from each other and toward the open field beyond the castle wall.  A jet-black mare whinnied in pure joy as she spun and capered about the field.  Her rider, a fifteen-year-old maiden with hair the color of her steed’s coat, tossed back her head and laughed once more.  Clearly, the girl was engaged in a game, as two other maids, also on horseback, chased her ruthlessly about the field.  However, the dark-haired girl and her equally dark horse eluded their pursuers time after time.

Upon the wall, the King and Queen of Gondor gazed into each others’ eyes once more, smiles lighting both their faces.

“It gives my soul rest to see her so happy,” Aragorn commented.

“Though you wish you could ride alongside her,” Arwen added.

“You read my mind, beautiful lady.”

Eyes still locked onto Arwen’s, Aragorn leaned forward, eager to kiss his beautiful wife.

“My lord!  My lady!”

A sigh of exasperation and regret passed Aragorn’s lips as he pulled away.  When he saw who had interrupted him, he gave a mock-glare.  “Legolas, could you possibly have waited another minute to interrupt my conversation with my wife?”

Legolas’ pale eyes flickered with a mischievous light.  “My lord, it would not have been appropriate for me to interrupt your...erm...”conversation” a minute from now.  I believe I have chosen the most…opportune moment.”

The elf’s calm – and infuriatingly logical – response brought a hint of a smile to Aragorn’s face.  “I fear you speak the truth, my friend,” he stated, “though I do wish you were wrong.”

Dropping the topic before the blush on Arwen’s pale face grew any deeper, Legolas rested his palms on the top of the wall and surveyed the countryside beyond.  His gaze, too, was drawn to the dark-haired young woman who rode in the field.  “Dómiel has grown into a beautiful young woman,” he observed.

Aragorn replied, “She has become extremely attached to that saddle you gave her.  It is quite difficult to convince her to come inside at all, even to dine!”

“The horse beneath her gives her freedom,” Legolas said thoughtfully.  “She possesses, I fear, far too independent a spirit to be bound to a chair.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn replied sadly.  “I wish there was a way for her spirit to move her body – she would be able to fly!”

“Fly she cannot,” Legolas said, “but she can at least ride.”

“And does – often,” Arwen added.  Then, turning to her husband, she said, “My lord, we should go now to dress for supper.”

“Go ahead,” Aragorn replied.  “I shall join you in a moment.”

“I shall see you again at supper, Legolas,” Arwen said in farewell.

“I look forward to it, my lady,” the fair-haired elf replied with a bow.

As his queen breezed from the wall-top, Aragorn turned his attention once more to his daughter’s form on the field below.  “Dómiel!” he called loudly.

At the call, the dark-haired girl turned her face up to her father.

Wordlessly, Aragorn gestured towards the palace.

Obediently, Dómiel called to her maids, turned her mount, and trotted toward the gates.

“If you will excuse me,” the king said to Legolas, “I must send for her bearer.”

“Oh, do not disturb Vandor, my lord!” the elf protested immediately, referring to the man-servant hired by the royal family for one purpose – to serve as Princess Dómiel‘s legs.  At Aragorn’s curious look, he explained, “I passed the man on my way to meet you.  I fear he sleeps – quite soundly, I might add – in the courtyard.  I shall go fetch the little one, if you give your permission.”

“I do, indeed,” Aragorn replied.  “I am certain Dómiel shall be happy to spend a few minutes’ time with you, as it has been so long since she has seen you.”  The last words were spoken with a mild rebuke.

“As they say, ‘absence doth make a fonder heart,’” Legolas replied with a mischievous bow.

Laughter lurking in his eyes, Aragorn watched the elf speed off into the beginning twilight, silent as a shadow.  Shaking his head in amusement, he turned his own steps toward his chambers.

When Legolas reached the stable, he found the princess’ party just arriving.  Slipping from the shadows, he bowed slightly and said, “Greetings, Lady Dómiel.”

Dómiel visibly started, clearly not having sensed Legolas’ approach.  “My lord!” she exclaimed upon seeing the elf.  “I did not expect to see you here.”

“I had no intentions of startling you,” Legolas responded gently.  “If you permit me, I have the honor of...escorting you back to the palace.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across the girl’s face at Legolas’ choice of words.  “Of course I shall permit you.  What else could I say, when such a noble elf asks so gallantly?”  With an ease that bespoke of long practice, Dómiel pulled two straps that lay crossed in front of her, and the straps that secured her twisted legs against the mare’s side released.  Carefully, the girl pressed her palms against the front of the saddle, lifting her torso, and maneuvered her right leg free from its place on the sidesaddle.

Impressed, Legolas noted with satisfaction that the black mare had not so much as twitched during the entire awkward procedure.  Gently, he reached up and eased the princess into his arms.

“Thank you, and do ensure she is well rubbed down,” Dómiel said to the groom who held the horse.

“I always do, my lady!” the groom replied cheerfully as he led the mare toward the stables.

“I do appreciate your willingness to assist me, Lord Legolas,” the girl said, switching to Sindarin, a language she had been brought up with, due to her parentage, “and it is wonderful to see you again.”  After a moment’s thought, she added, “I do not believe I have ever extended my gratitude to you or Lord Gimli for the saddle you crafted for me.”  Dómiel knew that her thanks were long overdue, but she was also aware that the years meant little to the elf.

If it were possible for a full-blooded elf to blush, Legolas would have.  “Your father thanked me sufficiently when the gift was given,” he informed her a bit curtly.

“Yet, I have not,” Dómiel insisted stubbornly.  “You have my undying gratitude, my lord, for gifting me with freedom.”

“You are quite welcome, little one,” Legolas replied, “and I shall pass on your thanks to Master Gimli the next time our paths cross.”

“Thank you again,” Dómiel responded with a smile.  “Ah, these are my chambers,” she informed him even as one of her maids slipped in front of Legolas and opened a door.  “If you would be so kind as to place me on the couch inside...”

“Of course.”  Legolas strode into the beautifully decorated chamber and set the princess down softly on the large, cushioned couch.  “I shall see you at supper, then, my lady?”  The elf switched to the common Westron for the benefit of the two maids who lingered in the shadows.

“I look forward to it, my lord,” Dómiel replied formally in the same language, bowing easily from her seated position.

With a final bow himself, Legolas exited the room.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Estel,” Legolas asked later that evening at the meal, “may I ask when your son is to return?”

“His hunting party is to return within four day’s time,” Aragorn replied.  “I fear you missed them by only a matter of hours.  In fact, I am surprised you did not come upon the party ere you arrived.”

“It should come as no great surprise, as I do not travel by the roads,” Legolas reminded his friend.

“You will stay long enough to greet them when they return, will you not?” Arwen asked from Aragorn’s far side.

“If the Lady wishes it,” Legolas replied gallantly.

“Indeed, I do.  It has been long since you visited our land, friend, and we would not wish to lose the pleasure of your company so swiftly.”  Arwen’s voice was low and sincere.

“Then, by the King’s leave, I shall remain here ‘til then, at least,” Legolas decided.

“The doors of my home are always open to you, Legolas,” Aragorn reminded him.

Then, one of the nobles seated further down the table, beyond the queen, asked a question, and the King’s attention turned away from his guest.

Quite content to listen, Legolas turned his own gaze towards his food and tuned his elven hearing in to the conversations around him.  The princess Dómiel, seated beside him had piqued his curiosity, and he spent some minutes listening to the soft conversation between her and the Steward Faramir who sat on her other side.  He was pleased to note that the girl had clearly been well-trained in the art of conversation, as she spoke with intelligence and insight.  Of course, I would expect no less from Arwen’s daughter, he mused.  Just as I suspect that, even in her crippled state, she has learned something of weaponry from her father…

“My lady,” he said, gaining Dómiel’s attention.  “I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity on a point.”

She replied, “My lord, please call me Dómiel.”

Legolas nodded.  “Dómiel, then.  I am curious to know if your training has included anything of the arts of sword or bow?”

Dómiel laughed softly, a clear laugh that left an impression of frequent use.  “Indeed it has.  I am utterly unproficient with the bow, but I have learned to use a dagger, as my father insists that I carry one when I leave the city walls.”

At that moment, Arwen called Legolas’ name, turning his attention to the other side of the table.  Suddenly, the fair-haired elf heard a swift intake of breath akin to a stifled gasp of pain, though the sound was too soft to be heard by any but elven ears.  Turning quickly, he saw Dómiel close her eyes for a brief moment.  When she opened them again, no sign of discomfort was written upon her face, but Legolas was certain enough of what he heard to keep a very sharp eye on the princess.

Minutes later, Dómiel shifted positions slightly and, once again, made a slight sound of pain.  This time, however, she allowed nothing to show on her face.

Legolas leaned a bit closer to her and commented quietly, “Many years ago, you informed me that your injuries do not pain you.”

“They do not, my lord,” Dómiel replied innocently.

“Unless, of course, she attempts to walk,” Aragorn said reprovingly, demonstrating his incredible knack for hearing every conversation that took place within fifteen feet of him.

Biting her lip, Dómiel looked away.  Switching to Sindarin for more privacy, she said, “’Tis true, I did attempt to walk a few times today, though only across my chamber.”

Aragorn shook his head.  This was clearly a debate familiar to both parties.  Following his daughter‘s shift in languages, he said, “If you were to simply ask your maids to fetch things for you...”

“My maids have quite enough to do.  I cannot be bound to a couch all the time!”  Suddenly, Dómiel remembered the presence of their guest.  “My apologies, my lord Legolas,” she said, still in Sindarin.  “My father and I have a...difference of opinion on this matter.”

“Do not feel you must explain,” Legolas replied.

“Thank you.”

Later that evening, just before Legolas retired to the quarters Aragorn had set aside for him, he asked his old friend, “Does Dómiel attempt to walk often?”

“Often enough,” Aragorn replied softly.  “She refuses to be ‘bound,’ as she says, to a sitting position, but walking, even though she supports herself mostly with her hands, is painful for her.”

“And to you,” Legolas added astutely.

“And to me,” Aragorn acknowledged honestly.  “I simply do not wish her to do any further damage to herself.”  Shaking his head, he dragged his mind back to the present.  “But now is not the time for such talk.  Sleep well, my friend.”

“The same to you,” Legolas replied.  However, after the king had left, the elf made his way to the top of the wall and spent many hours gazing at the stars, his mind and heart filled with sorrow for his dear friend and his free-spirited, crippled daughter.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dómiel sighed impatiently as she waited for the guards to mount their horses.  The small, patient part of her mind lectured her, reminding her that she was always set atop her mount before the soldiers had even finished preparing theirs for the ride.  Still, the young princess longed to be free of the city, riding off across the countryside.

Soon, though not soon enough as far as she was concerned, her small escort was prepared, and the party set off.

Once free of the walls, Dómiel set a rapid pace, reveling in the simple pleasure of wind blowing briskly across her face and through her long, loose hair.  Leaning forward over her mare’s shoulders, she smiled mischievously and began whispering in Sindarin.  The horse responded immediately by shifting to a full-out run.  Behind her, Dómiel could hear the soldiers of her escort and the maid who accompanied her spurring their horses on in a desperate attempt to keep up with the princess.

After several minutes, Dómiel slowed her mount, allowing the rest of the party to catch up with her.  Turning her face to the warm sun, she gave the mare her head and allowed her to meander wherever she pleased.

The escort quickly resumed their usual position behind the princess, allowing her to dictate both course and speed, as they always did.  As riding was the only form of freedom Dómiel had, she was wont to go out on horseback as often as her studies and other duties would allow.  These expeditions into the countryside occurred about twice weekly, with a small group of three or four soldiers assigned to escort her.

Far too soon for the princess’ taste, Dómiel’s maid reminded her that the time had come to turn back toward the city.  She had led the group out fairly far, and it would take nearly a half hour to return by the most direct route.  Reluctantly, the dark-haired maiden turned her mare.

Without warning, the mare halted in her tracks, forcing Dómiel to catch hold of the animal’s mane to keep her balance.  Gently, the girl began speaking to the horse in Sindarin, coaxing her to continue.  The mare shook her head and refused.

Only then did Dómiel’s sharp ears pick out the soft sounds of standing horses.  “Men are hiding here,” she hissed to her escort.

As one, the soldiers drew their weapons.

Suddenly, a group of about twenty men on horseback appeared on both sides of the path, hemming the group in.

“Princess!  Go!” the officer in charge of the escort cried.

Spotting a weak place in the attacking formation, Dómiel turned her horse once more and galloped full-steam toward it.  Miraculously, she broke through!  Obeying the officer, though reluctantly, she spurred her mare on with her voice and rode for the city.

She had not ridden more than a few yards when another group of six armed men on horseback seemed to explode from the trees. Three of them had bows in hand, arrows drawn back and aimed directly at her.  The other three held naked swords in readiness.

Unarmed save for the dagger at her belt and hopelessly outnumbered, Dómiel drew her mount to a complete halt.  Slowly, she took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to face the man who approached her, face completely calm.  One thought flickered in her mind – Do not show fear.

“Greetings, my lady,” the man sneered, transforming the title into a curse.

Dómiel remained silent and proud.

“I would suggest that you not move, princess,” the man ordered as he removed the dagger from the sheath at her side and stuck it into his own belt.

Dómiel obeyed unwillingly, as one of the archers now had an drawn arrow within inches of her throat.  “What do you want with me?” she asked calmly.

“You shall discover that all too soon.”  The commander – for so he seemed to be – seized the release cords for the straps that supported her legs, doubled them over, and knotted them firmly, making it impossible for Dómiel to leave her saddle.

Rage rose in the princess as she realized this man had somehow obtained access to the saddle before this.  Someone in the stables had betrayed her!

The commander quickly knotted her reins together and draped them over the horse’s neck.  Then, pulling a piece of rope from his robe, he seized Dómiel’s hands and began binding them together in front of her.  When he touched her, Dómiel flinched and yanked her hands from his grip, but a sudden touch of cool metal to her throat reminded her of the archer, and she relaxed her hands, allowing them to be roughly bound.  After attaching a leading rope to her mare’s bridle, the commander sneered, “Do not cry out, princess, or I shall be forced to do something you will regret.  And, remember, the archers ride behind you.”  With this, he trotted off, away from the city, Dómiel’s horse in tow.

As her captors led her away, a single tear slipped through Dómiel’s emotional wall and rolled down her face.

A/N: And it’s a two-fer this time, as an apology for how long it took me to get it up!

Chapter Two: Terror and Rage

A slight breeze swept through the courtyard of the royal palace, gently tossing the long, dark hair of the Lady Arwen, Queen of Gondor, as she stood gazing at the sunset.  This evening, she found herself out of doors, gazing into the West, remembering her father, Lord Elrond.  Though it had been her choice to forsake the immortal life to be with her beloved, at times she longed to hear the sound of her father’s voice.  She did not regret her choice, but she still spent many an hour living in her memories, and wondering where she would be now, had she chosen the other path.

The sound of footsteps flung Arwen from her reverie.  Her elven ears determined the situation almost before she noted the sound - a soldier was running towards her. 

An arrow of fear plunged into Arwen’s heart as the man came into view - he was one of those who had been assigned to Dómiel’s guard that afternoon!  Though no emotion revealed itself on her face, her hands trembled as she confronted the man.

“My lady!” he exclaimed.  “Forgive me for my rude interruption of your thoughts; I must speak with King Elessar at once!”

“The king is in his study,” Arwen replied, “but where is my daughter?”

A flush of guilt colored the man’s face.  “Forgive me, m’lady,” he whispered.  Without another word, he wheeled and sprinted across the courtyard toward Aragorn’s study.

The fear in her heart now coursing through her veins, Arwen hurried after the soldier.  With each beat of her heart, the same prayer flowed through her mind - Not Dómiel...Not Dómiel...

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Aragorn looked up from the documents he had been studying as the soldier burst into the room without even knocking.  “What brings you here?” he asked.

“My lord, forgive me!” the soldier cried, dropping to his knees at Aragorn’s feet.

“Rise,” the king commanded.  “Why do you beg my forgiveness?”

The man remained on his knees and refused to lift his face toward his king’s.  “My lord,” he said with a note of near panic in his voice.  “I...I must tell you.  Your daughter, Dómiel...she...” he swallowed convulsively, unable to continue, face a bare inch from the floor.

The same bolt of fear which had pierced his wife’s heart slammed into Aragorn’s spirit.  “Tell me what happened,” he ordered sternly.

His eyes fixed on the floor, the soldier spoke rapidly.  “We were attacked by a group of perhaps a score of riders.  My commander saw a weakness in their circle, and instructed the princess to ride.  I know she escaped their grasp; I saw her ride away.  Our group, however, was outnumbered and surrounded.”  The man’s breath caught in his throat as he added, “I was the only man to escape with my life.”

“And the princess?” Aragorn demanded.

The man shook his head miserably.  “I searched the area for any trace of her.  I found evidence of another group of riders.”  His voice dropped to a terrified whisper.  “I believe she was captured, my lord.”

A maelstrom of emotions charged through King Elessar at those words.  Unadulterated rage at those who would dare lay a finger on his dear daughter mixed with terror for Dómiel’s fate and a heart-breaking sorrow as he thought of what could be done to her.  Hearing more footsteps at the door, he looked up into the eyes of his beloved queen.  “Undómiel,” he whispered.

“Estel, what...?” Arwen feared the worst, but she could not bring herself to voice her fear.

“Captured,” Aragorn said softly.

“No!”  Heartbreak and fear mixed in her own eyes as Arwen ran to the protective circle of her husband’s arms.

Sensing the near-telepathic communication between the couple, the trembling soldier slipped from the room.

Aragorn stood perfectly still for a long moment, embracing his grief-stricken wife.  His eyes closed, he rested his face atop Arwen’s head, hiding uncharacteristic emotion he was incapable of suppressing.

Finally, the king raised his head and gently lifted Arwen’s chin.  Her rich blue eyes locked on his face, and she saw that iron determination had settled in his jaw.  His eyes no longer swirled with emotion; rather, they had hardened into a steely gaze that Arwen had seen only in the eyes of warriors riding out to battle.

“I shall track her captors down,” Aragorn vowed to his wife.  “I shall rescue our daughter, and teach whoever has done this a lesson on what it means to assault the Princess of Gondor!”

Even as a frightening line of intuition crossed Arwen’s mind, she asked, “How many men shall accompany you, m’lord?”

Aragorn shook his head ever so slightly, confirming his wife’s suspicions.  “I shall travel alone.  This is not a quest for an army; it is a quest for a Ranger.”

“And so Strider shall emerge once more,” Arwen stated.

Aragorn flinched at his wife’s frankness.  “Indeed.  Though, I wish it was under far better circumstances.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Everything has been arranged, my love,” Aragorn said softly in the gray light of the following dawn.  A passerby unfamiliar with the royal couple might have dismissed the pair outside the stables as mere travelers.  A long, gray cloak covered Arwen’s rich gown, and the hood obscured her elven features.  Aragorn was clothed in the travel-worn garb of a Ranger, rather than the royal robes of a king.  His bow hung over his shoulder, and Andúril hung by his side.

“I have left instructions with Faramir.  He shall carry out my wishes in my absence, but he has been instructed to consult with you as much as possible, my love.  Please keep my departure a secret for as long as you safely can; I shall need the element of surprise.”

Arwen nodded.

“I must leave you now,” Aragorn said softly.

“I know.”  Gently, Arwen drew her husband’s face to her own for a kiss.  “I know you shall bring our daughter home, my love.  I shall watch for your arrival every day.”

Tenderly, Aragorn ran one finger along his wife’s jawbone.  “I shall think of you every moment; a piece of my heart remains here with you.”

“And a piece of my heart travels with you, Estel, my beloved.”

“Farewell, my love!”

“Farewell!”

Aragorn turned and jogged to the stables.  With the ease of long practice, he leapt aboard his favorite mount and turned the stallion’s head toward the gates of the city.

He had not traveled for more than perhaps five minutes toward the place the soldier had told him Dómiel had vanished when the sound of hoof-beats met his ears.  Immediately, he turned his mount from the path and concealed himself in the trees.

The other horse did not come into view; Aragorn heard the it halt, but could hear no rider dismount.  He held his breath and focused all of his mind on listening and attempting to discern the rider’s location.  Silence met his ears, and worry began creeping into his mind.

“Well met, Strider of the Dúnedain!”  The voice came from not a foot behind Aragorn’s head.

Instantly, he whirled, Andúril sweeping in a neat arc before him.  The blade met only air as the figure behind him leapt easily aside.

When Aragorn turned his full attention to the figure, he let out the slightest of chuckles.  “I should have know ‘twas you.  Only an elf could sneak up on a Ranger so easily.”  He did not say this with pride; he merely stated a fact.

Legolas let out a full, ringing laugh.  “Indeed!  But, then, I was not attempting to sneak up on you!”

“Do not lie to me, friend,” Aragorn replied.  “My ears are keen enough to pick out the sound of your travel, unless you are attempting to be silent.”

Legolas bowed slightly.  “You have found me out.  I thought to test your instincts.”

“May I ask what you determined?” Aragorn asked.

“You are not quite prepared to undertake a quest such as the one you now pursue alone,” Legolas retorted, now quite serious.

“This is not a quest for an army, my friend,” Aragorn said, repeating the words he had spoken to his wife the evening before.  “This is a quest for a Ranger.”

“And who shall prevent the Ranger from committing mistakes?” 

“Fate.”  Aragorn dodged the verbal trap.

“I shall not allow you to undertake this mission alone,” Legolas stated firmly.  “I shall accompany you.”

“Can I say anything to stop you?” Aragorn asked with a sigh.

“No being can prevent an elf from journeying where he wishes,” Legolas replied, “least of all a mere man!”

Aragorn smiled slightly and extended a hand.  Legolas grasped his forearm in a companionable gesture of warrior’s trust.

“Let us hunt together!” Aragorn exclaimed.  With a grin, Legolas ran back along the path toward his horse.  Within seconds, the human and the elf rode side by side on their hunt - the latest in a string of hunts that spanned decades and the majority of Middle Earth.

Chapter Three: Forces of Evil

In the forest east of Gondor, between that land of peace and the still-foul land of Mordor, two warriors rode side by side through the slowly gathering twilight.  Neither spoke - indeed, neither had voiced so much as a single sound for some hours.  On occasion, one would glance at the other, but no other communication occurred.  None was needed.  Both warriors simply followed the trail that lay before them, a trail marked by broken twigs, slight footprints, and marred sections of undergrowth.  To the untrained eye, the path was all but invisible.  To Aragorn and Legolas, however, it was as plain as a city street.

Without warning, one horse slid to a halt, followed quickly by the other.  One of the hunterst listened, and the other waited.

“Yrch.”

The single word, though spoken in a voice so low it was nearly unintelligible, seemed to echo in the still forest.

Suddenly, Legolas dropped from his horse and handed the animal’s reins to Aragorn.  Without another word, the elf sprang into the branches of the nearest tree and vanished among them.

Aragorn, unsurprised by this rather sudden move on the part of his friend, remained still and silent on the ground.  His thoughts, on the other hand, were neither still nor silent within his head.  His memory flew back fourteen years, to a fateful night when his daughter was but a year old - the night she was crippled forever.

The images still burned painfully in his memory - Dómiel lying in a crumpled heap just outside the wall, her feet bent almost double beneath her from the force of her fall, her face twisted into a mask of pain and terror and confusion as she screamed.

 Daddy!

And far above, on the city wall, was Dómiel’s nursemaid, a single arrow through her chest.

An orc arrow.

A familiar fury built again within Aragorn’s heart and mind - a fury that rose as a physical burning within his chest each and every time he thought of his daughter’s handicap.  Now, his fury tripled in intensity as he thought of her captors and the harm they might be doing her.  As those who his rage should be directed against were too far for him to reach, his anger turned to the enemy that he could reach.

Orcs.

Instinctively, Aragorn’s hand clenched around Andúril’s sheath.  Any sensible man or beast who now spied the Ranger, hand on his weapon and righteous wrath in his features, would turn tail and flee in the face of this specter of judgment.

Legolas dropped lightly to the forest floor but a few feet from Aragorn, unmoved by the intimidating figure before him.  When the king did not speak, the elf questioned, “What do you hear, Strider?”

Aragorn had to forcibly rip his mind from his near-overwhelming thoughts of revenge to focus on forming the words to answer his friend.  “No danger save that which you have already found.”

“The party of orcs does not march in our direction,” Legolas reported.  “If this trail keeps to its present course, we should easily avoid them.”

“But why should we?” Aragorn asked.

“What?”  The slightest hint of surprise stole into Legolas’ features.  Aragorn did not fear battle, but it could not be said that the King of Gondor was reckless.  Entering into battle with a party of orcs the size of the one that now passed near them was beyond foolish - it could even be termed suicidal!

A battle-light crept into Aragorn’s eyes.  “Why should we shy from battle, Legolas?  We are each trained warriors, are we not?  We have a chance now to thin the ranks of our enemy, and to exact vengeance on them for the many wounds they have inflicted on us!”

Legolas’ mind, by now used to following the emotional paths in the minds of men - and dwarves - quickly discerned the root of Aragorn’s sudden battle lust.  Only a wound inflicted on one whom Aragorn loved would move the man to such recklessness.

“Aragorn,” the elf said calmly, using his friend’s true name purposefully, “revenge here will serve no purpose.  Even if we were to survive such a battle as you propose, our strength would be sapped, and we would have wasted even more of our precious time.”

Aragorn would not be swayed.  “It would be well worth our time if we were to slay even one more of those foul beasts!”

“And if you are killed in battle, what then?”  Legolas knew his words would cut deeply, but he pressed on.  “Who shall bear the news back to your wife that you died in glorious battle without fulfilling your vow to recover your daughter?  Who then shall remain to find Dómiel and carry her safely home?”

The fury in Aragorn’s spirit overwhelmed all rational thought, and, for a brief moment, it burned fiercely against his elven companion.  He began to pull Andúril from its sheath.

The moment passed, however, and Aragorn was forced to confront the painful truth in his friend’s words.  His mission now was not to slay orcs; his mission was to rescue his beloved daughter from the fiends who had abducted her.  He was letting his emotions rule him.

Legolas nearly sighed with relief as the vengeful light died from Aragorn’s gray eyes and he released his grip on his sword.

“You speak truly,” Aragorn said finally.  “Revenge shall wait.  We have wasted too much time here, my friend.  Let us ride on!” 

The fury still burned within Aragorn’s heart, but the king kept the anger locked there, deep inside.  Save your anger, he instructed himself firmly.  You shall need it soon enough.  Wait...wait.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The following evening

“Strider.”

Silence was Legolas’ only answer.  The elf sighed.  “Strider.”

Still, no answer returned to him.

“Aragorn, we must halt for the night.  It has become too dark for even elven eyes to follow the trail.”

Aragorn obediently drew his mount to a standstill, but still refused to reply.  He knew in his mind that his friend was, once again, correct, but his heart drove him on.

“Strider?”

Finally, Aragorn turned.  “I am loathe to spend yet another night sleeping peacefully while my daughter...”  He could not bring himself to complete the sentence.

“You can not help her if you lose the path,” Legolas chided him gently.  “Besides, you are in great need of rest, my friend.”

Unable to deny either of the elf’s statements, Aragorn reluctantly turned back and followed his friend off to one side of the trail.

“I shall stand the watch tonight,” Legolas stated in a tone that brooked no argument as the two men halted beside a massive oak tree.  “You need rest.”

Aragorn grumbled a bit, but could not find grounds to argue the point.  He knew all too well just how long elves could travel without sleep.  Aside from that, his body clamored for rest.

After a quick meal of lembas, Aragorn laid out his bedroll among the roots of the oak tree and bade Legolas goodnight.

“Sleep well,” the elf replied.  “You shall need your strength.”

“I shall sleep quite poorly, I fear,” Aragorn commented.  “My mind can not rest ‘til she is safe.”

“She shall be safe soon,” Legolas vowed.  “Now, rest.”  His tone made it an order.  With that, he sprang into the branches of the oak, leaving Aragorn on the ground with the horses.

Aragorn had to chuckle – it had been so long since anyone had given him an order.

But even knowing that Legolas’ keen eyes kept watch above him, Aragorn’s sleep was uneasy and punctuated by mocking nightmares and images from the past.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

No other man could have said what awakened Aragorn later that night.  Indeed, all Aragorn himself could have said was that an elven sense awoke him – an instinct gleaned from his many years as a Ranger and an elf-trained warrior.

Whatever awakened the Ranger, however, instantly sent alertness coursing through his veins, and he sprang to his feet, loosening Andúril in its sheath.  Silently, he scanned the surrounding forest, searching for the cause of the disturbance.

“Strider.”  Legolas’ voice floated down, so soft that Aragorn was forced to strain to make out the words.  “I was about to awaken you.”

“What is it?” the man asked, with perfect faith that the elf had already identified the threat.

“Warg.”

The simple word sent a shiver down Aragorn’s spine.  This close to Mordor, the old evils still ran amok.  He had expected this, and the band of orcs they had nearly collided with the day before had warned him, but he had still entertained hopes of avoiding wargs.  Even two seasoned warriors such as Legolas and himself stood little chance against a large pack of the bloodthirsty beasts.

Abandoning his post among the roots, Aragorn clambered up the giant oak.  Legolas met him about ten feet off the ground.

“Not bad climbing - for a man.”  Though danger approached, the worriless side of the Eldar shone through in the good-natured verbal jab.

Aragorn, however, refused to allow his mind to stray from the task at hand.  “How many?”  He spoke so softly that even another elf would not have heard him, unless that elf perched as close as Legolas now did.

“I have only located one,” Legolas replied, almost as softly.

“A scout?”

“More likely an outcast.  I have not spotted any signs of a pack in the area.”

“Perhaps.”  Aragorn remained skeptical - wargs rarely traveled alone.

Several minutes passed as the two warriors remained crouched on branches high in the oak.  Neither man nor elf made a single sound as they concentrated all their minds and bodies on listening.

Finally, Legolas snapped to full attention, bow seeming to fly into his hand.  “It has scented us.”

A moment later, Aragorn, too, could pick out the soft sounds of the warg’s travel as the beast picked its way toward them.

A scarce two minutes later, both warriors could pick out the warg’s shadowy form, circling the tree.

“I will draw him to you,” Aragorn volunteered.  Before Legolas could protest, he dropped easily from the tree - but landed awkwardly and collapsed onto the ground.  Slowly, he stood, placing all of his weight onto his left leg and balancing himself against the tree with his left hand.

The warg locked its beady eyes onto the dark-haired man.

Aragorn’s breaths began to come faster, and the hand resting upon Andúril’s sheath began to tremble.

The warg charged.

Aragorn’s vision narrowed; his eyes filled with the horrifying sight of roiling black fur, razor-sharp teeth, and horrendous, glinting eyes.  Somehow, he stood his ground.

The warg’s muscles coiled on its final stride as it prepared to spring.

Without even a hint of warning, Andúril flew from its sheath.  Now standing firmly on both uninjured legs, Aragorn whipped his blade in a tight arc, aiming for the beast’s throat.

Exhibiting unnatural reflexes, the warg leaped aside quickly enough to save its life, though Andúril still scored a gash down the beast’s side.

Growling in frustration, the warg began to circle around the suddenly uninjured warrior.

Aragorn stood his ground confidently, awaiting the familiar twang of Legolas’ bow, which would be followed by the warg’s final cry.

The sounds did not come.

Thinking that perhaps Legolas simply was unable to get a clear shot at the foe, Aragorn pressed the attack.  His blade flew through pattern after pattern, stinging and blocking as the Ranger strove to drive the beast into range of Legolas’ arrows.

Aragorn let out a slight cry of triumph as Andúril bit into the warg’s face, just below its eye.   He pressed his sudden advantage, swinging violently in an attempt to seriously injure the beast. 

Just as a swing passed beside the warg, however, it took full advantage of the miniscule pause and charged the human attacking it.

Aragorn clenched his jaw against the cry of pain that threatened to escape his lips as the warg’s razor-sharp teeth ripped a bloody groove down his arm.  Before the pain even registered, he dove to one side, escaping a second injury.

And still, no elven arrow rescued the Ranger from his plight.

Now lying flat on his back, Aragorn fought for his very life.  Time and again, the beast’s jaws snapped at his throat.  Time and again, he dodged or blocked those death-dealing teeth.  What seemed like hours passed as Aragorn and the warg continued this horrific dance which could lead to only one conclusion - death.

Without warning, the warg leapt backward, howling in sudden agony.

Aragorn sprang to his feet, ignoring the pain that shot through his body from the various cuts and bruises that now decorated his arms, face, and torso.  Before he had even stood to his full height, the distinctive twang of a bow being released met his ears, and the warg howled once more as a second elven arrow appeared in its neck.

A third time the bow of Legolas sang, and a third arrow appeared - this one embedded in the beast’s shoulder.  The warg threw its head back and screamed its pain to the stars.

In one fierce motion, Aragorn silenced the warg forever.

Silence swept back through the forest as the fire of battle died from Aragorn’s veins.

“Strider!”

Aragorn did not start, though the voice sounded from just behind him.  “Well shot, Legolas.”

“Though not quickly shot,” Legolas replied ruefully.  “Come.  You will wish to see this.”

Aragorn obediently trailed the elf around the massive tree.  Just around the trunk from where he had fought, he stopped, staring in disbelief at the ground.

There lay the still form of another warg, this one slightly smaller.  Two arrows protruded from the beast’s body, proving Legolas’ kill.

“Now I see why your arrows did not arrive with their usual promptness,” Aragorn commented without any trace of bitterness.

“I do not know why I did not sense the second warg’s approach,” Legolas said.  “By the time I heard its footsteps, you had already engaged the larger beast.  Had I not dispatched this one first, it would have flanked you and possibly injured you further.”

“You have no need to explain yourself to me.  I am uninjured, and both beasts have now fallen.”

“It is true that they have fallen, but you, my friend, are far from uninjured,” Legolas responded, a slight rebuke in his voice.

Aragorn turned his attention to the gash that ran the length of his left forearm.  Now that his thoughts had turned to it, pain flooded through the entire arm.  His reaction consisted of only the slightest of winces - so slight that it normally would have gone unnoticed - but Legolas’ elven eyes caught the grimace.

“Sit.”  The elf’s voice brooked no argument, so the man obeyed.

With the ease of much practice, Legolas dressed the wound with herbs and bound it tightly.  When he finished, Aragorn stretched the arm, testing its strength and range of motion.  “I remain fit to travel,” he announced.

“You would pronounce yourself fit for travel were your foot broken,” Legolas retorted.

Aragorn refused to reply, but the hint of a smile touched his face.

The two warriors sprang once again upon their mounts and, as the first rays of dawn lit the sky, they set back upon their trail.

Chapter Four: Hope Given and Hope Lost

A glorious spring day had risen over the land.  The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, and no sound, save that of a few birds, touched the still afternoon air.

No sound, that is, that could be distinguished by mortal ears.

Legolas stiffened.

“What is it?”  Aragorn whispered.

Rather than replying, Legolas leapt into a nearby tree and disappeared into its branches.

Aragorn sighed.  He wondered with a sinking heart how many further delays they would face before this journey’s end.  Already, he felt they had wasted too much time in fighting that should have been spent in tracking.

Legolas’ head appeared in the branches a few feet away.  “Come,” was all he said.

Wordlessly, Aragorn tethered the horses and followed his companion into the tree branches, keeping as silent as he knew how.

Legolas led him through the trees for several minutes.  Finally, he came to a halt on the edge of a small clearing.  “Look.”  The elf’s voice, though soft, carried a current of hope tinged with pain.

Slowly, making as little noise as possible, Aragorn crept forward on the tree branch and peered through the leaves into the clearing.

A group of six men knelt around a small fire, cooking something over it.  All six talked coarsely, with many rough jests and short, barking laughs.  Seven horses grazed at intervals around the clearing; six of them looked as rough as the men around the fire.  The seventh, however, was a clean and noble beast who looked out of place among such coarse surroundings.

Then, Aragorn’s gaze was drawn to a seventh figure, this one near the edge of the clearing.  The king’s breath caught in his throat, and a tear sprang to his eye.

Almost exactly across the clearing from him, a slim, female figure was bound securely to a tree.  Long hair the color of the midnight sky concealed her bent head.

The slightest of breaths escaped Aragorn’s lips – “Dómiel!”

Beside the king, Legolas whispered something so soft that even Aragorn could not understand it.

“I must go to her!”  Giving no heed to the danger, Aragorn tensed to spring.  Legolas let out a hiss of warning.

Then, the bound girl raised her head.

Aragorn bit back a cry of utter despair. 

What peered out from beneath the veil of rich, black hair was not the familiar, grey-eyed face he expected, but a younger face, with soft brown eyes.

She was not Dómiel. 

It was only after this realization that Aragorn noticed the girl’s thinly-shod feet.  Both were planted firmly on the ground; both ankles were straight and healthy.

The unique pain of cruelly dashed hope crashed into Aragorn’s heart, and he bit back another cry of anguish.   Despite his pain, he found his gaze drawn inexplicably back to the captured girl.

Clearly, she had not been treated well.  Bruises of varying shades covered both sides of her face, marring the smooth texture of her skin.  Dried blood marked where her lip had been split – more than once, it seemed.  Despite her injuries, however, the girl’s chin remained high, even when one of the men approached her.

“Are you willing to speak yet, vixen?” the man asked harshly.

The girl gave him no reply.

Her silence earned her a slap across the face.  “You shall break, girl,” the man growled.  “Sooner or later, you will tell me everything I need to know…won’t you?”

Still, the girl remained silent.

With a snarl, the man backhanded her viciously.  Then, without another word, he turned and re-joined his companions at the fire.

“Still stubborn?” one of the others asked.

“So far,” the first man replied, “but I shall break her yet.  She has only been away from home a few days now.  We have days and days – as long as we need – to bend her will to ours.”

If the imprisoned girl heard the remark, she allowed no reaction to touch her features.  From his position in the tree across from her, Aragorn could clearly see her eyes as they wandered up toward the sky, as if seeking answers no other could see.

Her eyes leaked despair and utter hopelessness, and they held no illusions.  Whatever circumstances had brought her to these men, she did not expect to ever leave again.  Her eyes reflected the wish of the condemned - a merciful death.

Aragorn turned away.  Silently, he returned to the horses, Legolas close behind.

“We must press on,” Aragorn said, his voice ragged with emotion.  “Our mission has not changed.”  Nevertheless, the despair in those eyes haunted his mental vision.

Legolas sensed the division in his friend’s mind.  “You must choose, Aragorn.  You trade the freedom of that girl for the possible freedom of your daughter.  No other can make that choice.”

“We must press on,” Aragorn repeated softly.  “And yet…” his voice caught.  “And yet…were that girl my daughter, and I merely a passer-by…”  Pain flickered in Aragorn’s gray eyes as a battle was waged within his mind – a battle between his love for Dómiel and his sense of compassion toward one in need.  Finally, his chin came up in determination.  “I cannot leave an innocent to suffer in that manner.  I could never forgive myself if I passed by a child in such need.”

Legolas nodded solemnly, but the slightest flicker of an approving smile touched his face. 

As one, the two warriors moved back toward the clearing.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The six men around the fire kept up a continuous stream of conversation and jesting as they ate.  None stood watch; none noticed slight movements in the trees that could not be attributed to bird or beast of the forest.

Without even a hint of warning, an arrow seemingly appeared in the center of the circle of men, embedded just outside the fire-ring.

“Surrender!  You are surrounded!” a voice cried.

The six men leaped to their feet.  “Who dares to approach us?” one of them called back.

“One who wishes for the freedom of your captive.”

At these words, the girl’s head came up. 

“We will never let her go!” one of the girl’s captors cried.

“Than you shall never leave this place alive,” the voice in the trees vowed.

The group of men in the clearing huddled together and began to whisper, deciding what to do.

An arrow neatly flew through the group, touching none of them.  “The next arrow shall not miss,” stated the voice in the trees.

Suddenly, one of the men broke from the group and sprinted across the clearing toward the girl, pulling a knife from a sheath at his side as he ran.  “She will die first!” he screamed.

The twang of a bow cut through the air, and the man fell to the ground, an elven arrow through his heart.

The other five men instantly dropped to their knees, hands out before them in a gesture of surrender.

A moment later, Aragorn dropped from the trees, Andúril in his hand.  “Leave this place,” he ordered the men, his voice low and dangerous.  “The land of Gondor is no longer safe for you – flee to the evil realm from whence you came!”

The five men wasted no time in scrambling to their feet and sprinting away from the dark-haired vision of vengeance who had so easily defeated them.  Aragorn followed them into the forest for a short ways, ensuring that they did not turn back.

While his companion followed the captors, Legolas also dropped lightly from the trees and made his way to the captive.  Drawing one of his knives from its sheath on his back, he sliced through the cords that bound the girl with one stroke.

Not expecting to be freed so violently, the girl fell forward onto her knees.  As she began to stand, she felt a strong hand help her to her feet.

“Thank…” her words died off as she saw her rescuer’s face.  “You...you are an elf!”

“Indeed,” Legolas replied wryly.

“Forgive me,” the girl said softly.  “I have never met one of your people before…I…”

Legolas shook his head.  “No apology is necessary.  Come, let me take you away from this place.”  Being careful of her injuries, he led her through the trees to where his and Aragorn’s horses had been tied. 

The girl followed obediently, never taking her eyes from the elf’s face.

Moments later, Aragorn joined them.  “How do you feel?” he asked the girl.

A flicker of suspicion mixed with fear leaped into her eyes as she turned her gaze to the man, and her shoulders stiffened, but she gave no answer.

Suddenly, Aragorn realized the cause of both her fear and her suspicion.  “You have nothing to fear from us.  We shall not harm you, and we want nothing from you; we simply want to see you returned to your home and your people.”

The girl remained silent for another long moment.  Finally, she spoke.  “Thank you…thank you for rescuing me.”

“No thanks is needed,” Aragorn replied.  “I am called Strider.”  He purposefully did not introduce Legolas. 

“My name is Doleth.  I am the daughter of the Mayor of the town of Molenth.  Do you know the place?”

“A small town in Eastern Gondor, is it not?” Aragorn responded

Doleth nodded.  “About two days ride from here, as near as I can tell, anyway.”

“How did you come to such a state, Doleth?”  Aragorn asked as he gently sat the girl down on a boulder and began digging through his pack for a cloth and his water-skin to clean her wounds.

After a moment of hesitation, Doleth met Aragorn’s gaze in a gesture of desperate trust.  “’Tis a long tale, good sir, but I am willing to tell it.  Legends hold that a vast store of gold, silver, and precious jewels were concealed in and around the village of Molenth many centuries ago by the great kings of old.  It is said that the secret to the treasure’s location has been passed down from father to son in the line of the rulers of the city.  However, this tale is merely a legend.  If such a treasure horde exists, than my father, the Mayor of Molenth, has never been told of it.  Nevertheless the legend lives on within the minds of many men, especially those who wish to gain wealth through illicit means.  This is not the first time I have been captured by those seeking to obtain the location of the treasure from my father.  Though, it is the first time they have assumed I knew that location.”

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a brief glance.  Aragorn did not need to ask Legolas his opinion on what to do next – he knew what they must do.  “You are free from their clutches now, little one.  My companion and I will see you safely home.”

Doleth looked from one to the other, eyes wide.  “I thank you, kind sirs.  I know you must have far more pressing errands than escorting a girl home to her father, so I thank you all the more for your kindness.”

“Indeed.”  Aragorn could not keep the word from passing his lips.  Doleth did not hear it, but Legolas did, and the elf shot his friend a warning look.  Aragorn nodded slightly in return.  He did not need to burden this child with his own worries and doubts.

That evening, as Doleth slept peacefully and Legolas kept watch, Aragorn lay sleepless, eyes fixed on the stars.  Dómiel, my daughter, do you sleep in peace?  Or do you weep in sorrow and fear?  Keep your hope close, my daughter – know that I come.  Aragorn took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.  Keep hope close.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Blackness.

It was not merely physical, but mental.  It penetrated and enveloped Dómiel’s mind and spirit, clouding all other senses and eliminating all hints of joy as she was dragged – where, she could not tell.  A rough, dirty cloth was bound tightly across her eyes, as it had been since that morning.

Abruptly, the two men dragging her halted their rapid marching.  A moment later, she was flung roughly sideways.  Stubbornly, she swallowed a cry of pain as – for what seemed like the hundredth time since her forced journey had begun – she landed on her crippled legs, which buckled instantly beneath her.

Somewhere in the darkness, near her crumpled form, a violent bang shook the air as an iron door slammed to.

Moving quite slowly, her muscles protesting every movement, Dómiel slipped the blindfold from her face.  She found herself to be in a stone cell, perhaps one-and-a-half times her height across.  A barred window scarcely larger than her hand provided her only access to light and air – and both came from the corridor beyond.  A straw pallet in one corner made up her only furniture.  For a princess used to gardens, open courtyards, and vast halls, the cell seemed no larger than a coffin.

Gingerly, Dómiel stretched, ensuring that each part of her abused body still worked.  Both abused ankles throbbed in a slow, constant beat that echoed the thumping of her fear-riddled heart.  With practiced gentleness, she massaged her ankles and her wrists, which bore thick, red welts from the cords that had continually bound her during the several-day journey.

As she looked about her cell, taking in the bleak stone walls and the absolute stillness, fear mixed with despair in her spirit.  I am alone, she thought with an ever-sinking heart.  I am alone, and no one can help me here.  Fighting the absolute terror that this thought provoked, she lay down on the straw pallet.  Despite her desperate effort of will, two drops of water spilled from her eyes and slid to the straw – the only witness to her utter hopelessness.

Chapter Five: Consequences of Delays

Legolas halted his mount.  “Someone draws near.”

“Friendly?” Aragorn asked in a whisper.

The elf shook his head.  “I do not know.”

Gently, Aragorn shook the shoulder of the slumped figure who rode in front of him.  “Doleth, you must wake.  Someone is coming.”

The girl started, straightening quickly.  “Forgive me, sir.  I must have dozed off.”

The slightest of smiles touched Aragorn’s face.  During the tedious journey of the last day and a half, Doleth had made no complaint at the fast pace they had maintained.  In fact, she had been nothing if not eager to please, seeming afraid to offend either of the warriors who escorted her.  Aragorn’s smile quickly vanished however, as it always did.  Every movement Doleth made reminded him of Dómiel in the most painful way – every toss of the head, every fleeting smile inevitably made him think of his own daughter, somewhere beyond his reach.

Legolas turned toward his king.  “They come directly toward us.”

Aragorn made a swift decision.  “Hide.”

Both warriors turned their horses quickly off the path and into the trees.  Moving with speed learned from decades – or, in Legolas’ case, centuries – of experience, they concealed their horses and crept forward to the edge of the path to watch and wait.  Doleth crouched down where Aragorn had motioned for her to stay, trembling.

Finally, a party of armed men on horseback appeared from around the bend.  The men bore black shields, and their helmets masked their faces.

A cry flew from Doleth’s lips.

Instantly, Legolas clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late.  The men had heard.

“Reveal yourselves!” cried the man who seemed to be in command, searching the brush with his eyes.

Aragorn hesitated, mind racing as he looked for a way out.

The commander gave a quiet command.  Six men drew arrows from their quivers, aiming at the thicket where the trio hid.

Without warning, Doleth leapt to her feet.  Legolas jumped up beside her, hoping somehow to shield her from the arrows that would surely fly.

The commander’s eyes grew wide in shock.  “Doleth?”

“Don’t shoot, Papa!  They haven’t hurt me!”

Aragorn chuckled in amusement and relief as he rose to his feet, hands spread in a gesture of peace.  “Greetings, honored Mayor!” he called out.  “I believe you are searching for this young one.”

“Yes,” the Mayor replied softly, and Aragorn thought he detected a glimmer of moisture in the man’s eye.

Legolas released his hold on Doleth’s arm, and the girl ran from the thicket, crying, “Papa!”

The instant she reached the safety of her father’s arms, Doleth began to talk, telling him everything about her capture and subsequent rescue.  It took several minutes for the Mayor to assure himself that Aragorn and Legolas had not captured his daughter, but rescued her.  Once he was certain that his daughter had come to no harm, he greeted the two warriors warmly.

“My name is Telithar, Mayor of Molenth, and all the resources of my small town are at your disposal, Master Ranger and Master Elf,” he said fervently.

Aragorn bowed slightly.  “All I could ask of you, sir, would be information.”

As the soldiers began setting up a temporary camp, Aragorn and Legolas seated themselves near the edge of the clearing beside Telithar and Doleth, who refused to leave her father’s side.

Aragorn wasted no time.  “Your daughter told us of a band of renegades who often arranged kidnappings of this type.  Do you know anything about them?”

Telithar nodded.  “After the defeat of Sauron, Mordor became a gathering place for all evil.  Many men who had profited from Sauron’s reign of terror – thieves, assassins, and the like – journeyed there and set up homes for themselves under the shadow of the lingering darkness.”

Aragorn nodded.  This much he already knew.

“Several of those men,” Telithar continued, “allied themselves into small bands in order to commit larger and more terrible crimes.  A few years ago, one of these groups began taking responsibility for a series of kidnappings.  Their methods are unfailingly the same.  Family members of men of wealth and influence, or occasionally the man himself, vanish without a trace.  Some days later, the man or his family receives a note demanding vast amounts of gold or silver or gems or whatever that land has to offer, for the safe return of the one who was taken.  If the families do not pay, the victim is never seen again.  The rumors say they are killed or worked to death in the bowels of the earth.”  He shuddered and pulled his daughter close to his side.

Struggling desperately to keep his face neutral, Aragorn merely nodded.

“What else do you wish to know?” Telithar asked after a moment.

“What do these men call themselves?”

“No one knows,” the Mayor replied.  “Their ransom demands are signed merely with a symbol – a black-hilted knife.  My people refer to them as the “Shadows of Mordor.”

“Do you know where they have their lair?” Aragorn asked.

“The last time Doleth fell into their hands, we tracked to the mountains themselves.  I do not know whether or not they are still there, but I can show you the area where we found my daughter.”

“I would find that most helpful,” Aragorn replied, careful to keep his answer casual.  As Telithar went to look for drawing supplies – trailed, of course, by Doleth – Aragorn caught Legolas’ eye.

“I think, my friend,” the elf whispered softly, “this delay has proven to be well worth its risk.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I shall agree with you once I hold Dómiel in my arms as Telithar held Doleth.”

The Mayor trotted back a moment later, a piece of parchment in his hand, and Aragorn schooled his features once more.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Three days later

“We are nearly there,” Aragorn whispered, glancing once more at the roughly-drawn map Telithar had given him.

“I feel as if we are being watched,” Legolas warned softly.  “These mountains have eyes.”

After a moment’s consideration, Aragorn nodded in the direction of a rocky outcropping a few yards away.  “Perhaps we can shelter the horses there.”

The outcropping proved to be quite suitable for concealing both mounts, so Aragorn and Legolas left them there and crept further up the mountain on foot.

“There.”  Legolas pointed just up the mountain at a dark hole, nearly concealed by brush and boulders.  “That looks large enough to be the entrance.”  He crept closer, moving to see from a better angle.  “Yes…I see movement.  There is someone there.”

“It is heavily guarded, no doubt,” Aragorn muttered darkly.

“Let us look for another entrance,” Legolas said.  “If we could sneak in through some abandoned tunnel…”

“That search could take days,” Aragorn protested quietly.

“Estel…it is our best hope.”

Finally, Aragorn nodded, the two set off around the edge of the small cliff which housed the entrance and began a long, and quite possibly futile, search for a lesser-used entrance.

Chapter Six: Desperate Tears and Desperate Plans

Into the darkness escaped the smallest of whimpers.  It seemed to echo in the eerie silence.

Instantly, Dómiel sat up a bit straighter, listening.  When no footsteps reached her ears, she relaxed her shoulders – but only slightly.  What if someone had heard? she scolded herself.  The guard might have returned…  An involuntary shudder ran through her, stemming from more than just the cold, damp air.  The last time the guard had found cause to approach her cell door, he had spent more than twenty minutes hurling curses at her, verbally abusing everything from her infirmity to her parentage to her very existence.  She had no wish to repeat that particular experience.

Casting yet another look about the cell, the princess curled up once more on her dirty straw pallet.  I must look a fright, Dómiel thought to herself.  She allowed herself the slightest of smiles.  To be thinking of something as trivial as her appearance in a situation like this!  However, anything that occupied her mind, even for a brief second, was welcome in this place. 

Dómiel could not tell how long she had lain in her tiny stone cell.  Down in this hole, lit only by far-away torches, night and day blended together in a hazy twilight of sleep and wakefulness.  The only thing she had to mark the passage of time was the approach of a guard, who threw a hunk of bread and a small skin of water through the barred “window” set into the door.  When this happened, Dómiel would drag her sore and protesting body across the stone floor, eat her meager meal, toss the water skin back out into the corridor, and crawl back to her pallet.  Each time, she was tempted to keep the water skin, if only to fling it into her guard’s face, but she dared not risk the guard carrying out the threats he had made the first time he had brought the food.  Helpless, Dómiel obeyed.

Right now, there was nothing to do but sleep.  And so, she closed her eyes against the terrifying sight of the close, dark, stone walls and willed her mind to rest.  As blessed unconsciousness – her only source of peace – descended upon her, her battered mind sent up a fleeting prayer.

Let help come…or let me die.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“No.”

“Strider…”

“No!  I will not let you take the risk.”

“And what other choice do we have?” Legolas asked.

Aragorn looked away.  “None…”

Legolas raised an eyebrow and waited.

Aragorn glared at the elf.  “None…that we have discovered,” he finished.

Knowing all too well the level of the human’s stubbornness, Legolas resorted to different, and somewhat crueler, tactics.  “And would you have us waste any further time in a search?”  He gentled his voice.  “We do not know how much time remains to us.”

For a moment, Aragorn looked away, eyes closed against the thought.  Finally, he nodded.  “You are right, my friend.  We do not have another choice.”

“Then let us waste no more time,” Legolas said. He slid his bow from his back and handed it to the man beside him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

A sound invaded the thick haze of Dómiel’s mind, causing her to spring to full alertness in a mere fraction of a second.  Remaining perfectly still, she trained her sharp hearing on the corridor beyond her heavy iron door.  Only the continual, oppressive silence reached her ears.

With a sigh, Dómiel returned her head to the pallet.  A horrible thought pierced into her mind – Am I going insane?  Normally, she would have instantly dismissed such a ludicrous thought.  But now, her mind latched onto the new thought with the rabid desperation of a bored and overactive imagination.  The only person she had ever heard of who had gone insane was Faramir’s father, Denethor.  Her tutors had told her the story – Denethor leaping up atop his own deathbed, threatening to light both himself and his still-living son aflame.

As Dómiel’s mind edged closer and closer to sleep, a horrific vision sprang up within her half-dreaming imagination.  She sat on one of the pallets within the Houses of the Dead, sticks piled around her, as she held a flaming torch aloft.  In front of her, wavering and indistinct, stood her family and friends.  Her father and mother were both there – Father in his Ranger garb, and Mother in her robes, the two making an odd match.  Eldarion stood beside Gilraen, his hand laid protectively on his younger sister’s shoulder.  There, too, stood Legolas the elf beside Gimli the dwarf, as well as her maids and Vandor.

Not one of the figures who stood before her moved to stop her as she waved the torch closer and closer to the oil-soaked wood.  Not even her own emotions could stop her arm.  Her body had left her control – closer and closer the torch came…

“Dómiel?”

The voice snapped Dómiel into full consciousness.  Slowly, silently, she raised herself to a sitting position, listening as intently as she could.  The voice did not come again.  I truly am going insane, she told herself, panic rising in her heart.  I hear voices that cannot be there.

Suddenly, the voice came again; this time, Dómiel could not ignore the soft, whispered voice, speaking in clear Sindarin.

“Keep hope close, Dómiel!  Your father is coming.”

Desperate tears welled up in Dómiel’s eyes.  She whispered desperately into the dark.  “Ada?”

No other sound came, so Dómiel let herself slump back down onto her pallet.  This time, however, all thoughts of her own insanity had fled, and a she let the tears of hope flow down her face unchecked.

The echo of the elvish voice within her mind chased away all the shadows that haunted her.  “Keep hope close.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Shifting position restlessly, Aragorn swept the surrounding landscape with his sharp gaze.  Here in these mountains, no life stirred.  All was still and quiet.  Too quiet, he thought.  The waiting – though necessary – chafed horribly at his spirit.  He hated waiting.  If he had his way, he would charge the main entrance of the cavern and force his way through to his beloved daughter.

If Dómiel is here, he reminded himself sternly.

His heart rebelled against that thought – to have come so far in pursuit, and yet fail now when he was so close was unthinkable!  And yet he knew he must at least consider the possibility that he had been misled.  He knew nothing of Telithar’s character – the Mayor could have easily led him astray.  Or she might have been here until…  “No!” Aragorn whispered.  He refused to believe that his daughter was dead.  Nor will I until I see her body myself, he vowed.

Aragorn forced his mind from the horrible thoughts playing through it and made what seemed like his thousandth visual sweep of the area.  This time, however, a flash of light caught his eye.  Instinctively, he crouched down a bit further behind the boulder he hid behind and focused his gaze on the patch of ground several feet down the hill.

Amidst the brown grass and rocks, a round-ish patch of brilliant yellow-white had appeared.  Aragorn risked raising himself a bit higher, mystified by this strange object.

Then, the light moved.

Aragorn dropped back down behind the rock.

And then the familiar head of Legolas the elf appeared above the ground, his bright blonde hair waving lightly in the soft breeze.

Aragorn’s shoulders relaxed, and he rolled his eyes.  That is what worrying does to a man, he scolded himself.  What good are the so-called skills of a Ranger when I cannot even recognize an elf?

By this time, Legolas had both hands atop the edge of the vertical tunnel he was crawling out of.  Suddenly, there was a noise like a snapping twig – though far louder – and Legolas vanished again.  Only the elf’s fingertips could be seen, still clutching the edge.

Aragorn scrambled from his hiding place, and ran down to the tunnel’s entrance.  By the time he reached it, Legolas had found new footing below.  The man grabbed his friend’s hand and hauled him free from the tunnel.

Neither man nor elf spoke as they crept down the hillside.  As they walked, Aragorn grew more and more agitated, enough so that he failed to notice that the usually graceful Legolas was now moving with a slight limp.

The instant the two warriors reached the relative safety of the horses, Aragorn turned to the elf beside him.  “Did you find her?”

Legolas sat down on a small boulder.  “Yes.”

“And?”

“I was only able to get a glimpse, but she seemed to be well.  If nothing else, she is alive and still capable of speech.”

Relief rushed through Aragorn, and he dropped down beside the elf.  “We have found her,” he repeated slowly, as if attempting to convince himself.

“Indeed.  And, I was able to whisper a few words to her,” Legolas added.  “She knows we are coming.”

Aragorn laid a hand on Legolas’ shoulder.  “Thank you, my friend.  You have given me hope.” He sat for a long moment, gray eyes focused on thin air.  Then, suddenly, he leapt to his feet.  “Now, we must only figure out how to free her.”

“It will not be easy,” Legolas replied.  “The passages are crawling with guards, and the door to her cell is made of iron and firmly locked.  Only the chief guard carries the keys.”

“Any other entrances?” Aragorn asked.

Legolas shook his head.  “I saw nothing other than the main entrance, which is too heavily guarded, and that vent I climbed down, which is too narrow.”

“Then we are no better off than we have been since this began!” Aragorn exclaimed in despair.

“We know she is alive, Strider.”

Silence fell upon the clearing.  For a long moment, the two warriors merely stared at each other.

Then, Aragorn spoke.  “I have an idea.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“I still do not like this, Strider.  It is too dangerous!”

“I seem to remember telling you that before you slid down that air shaft,” Aragorn retorted.

Legolas sighed.  “This is even riskier.”

“True, but I won’t slip,” Aragorn said.

Legolas sighed.  “Are you planning on holding that slight…miscalculation…over my head for the rest of this journey?”

Aragorn considered this for a moment.  “No - longer.”

Legolas smiled slightly.  Now that Aragorn had a plan that involved action, he was in a much better mood.  “If it were not for the fact that you shall need all your strength in the coming hours, I would be forced to give you yet another lesson on the superiority of elvish coordination.”

“Fortunately for me, you have more sense than that.”  Aragorn knew all too well that Legolas would have no problems whatsoever in “teaching him a lesson.”

“Be careful, Aragorn.”  Legolas’ eyes held no merriment now.  “A slip now on your part will bring far more than a mere twisted ankle.”

It will bring all our deaths.

Neither said the words; they didn’t have to.  They were both thinking them.

Without another word, Aragorn strode away back up the hill.

Legolas’ sharp eyes followed the man until he disappeared behind the outcropping.  As he walked back to the horses to prepare for his part in this desperate plan, he whispered to the air, “He shall either succeed, or never walk this world again, and I shall be by his side. For on him rests now the fate of many.”