Summary: Book One. Five Legacies; destined to either come together and fight, or all fall to the Shadow Nation one by one. AU. OOC. LotR inspired. Fantasy.

Rating: M - Language, sexual situations, dark topics, mentions of non-graphic rape, some horror.

Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns the Twilight characters.

Beta: Chapter 1 - Aunt Bran.

Legacy: Book I

Five Thrones, each with a Legacy, will stand.

The Axes, commanded by the son of Men, both resilient and deadly.

The Twin Blades, armed by the daughter of Magic, both powerful and lithe.

The Hammer, wielded by the Goblin Princess, both beautiful and devastating.

The Bow, summoned by the Fairy Prince, both diminutive and great.

And lastly, a crested weapon to yield them all.

The King's Sword, ordered by the worthy, both powerful... and all consuming.

[ ]

Written on the deathbed of the Prophet Jeremiah, 738 AD.

Lost scripture, buried beneath the Temple of the Dead, Makah Nation

[ I ]

"You must hold your weapon higher, like this," Paul hissed, yanking the young girl's elbow up into a braced position. "Your opponent must not be able to see the moves before you make them. You must balance your mind and your body; make them work as one, rather than two separate entities."

He circled her for the briefest of moments before swinging up and around with his right hand, a bronze bladed axe, embellished with his family's coat of arms, slicing through the air in a magical display of reflective colours.

Jumping left, Leah dodged his axe, only to have it followed by an identical weapon in his left hand.

Bringing her machete up, their weapons connected causing a metallic ting to ring out through the air and surrounding dense forest. With his weapon and strength outweighing hers, she felt the machete slip into the cool grass leaving nothing but air in her grasp.

Spinning back on her heel gave her enough time to swing her primary blade, only to have that connect with the pure lethal edge of Paul's larger axe. Suddenly she found herself unarmed; her neck was within a breath of the scissored edges the older man held.

With her eyes level on his slightly grey stubbled chin, she dared not even exhale.

"You must not think so much. I can see it in your eyes. You must allow your hands to flow and your body will follow," Paul sighed, allowing his weapons to drop by his sides and away from the slim column of her neck.

"This is impossible," Leah growled, stepping back and snatching her blades from the ground. "You are too strong, your weapons too large," she argued as she tossed the handles around inside her grasp.

Bandage tipped fingers gripped, as the blades spun, hoping to find the right angle and the right amount of friction. Being disarmed of a weapon was not an option in times of war - unless, of course, it accompanied death.

"The size of my weapons and the power of my strength mean nothing. You are smaller, more agile. You have the advantage of stealth. You need to harness it and learn how to use it. Why be fast, when you can be faster? Why be better, when you can be the best?" Paul answered seriously as he stood back and angled his boot out in front of him, arch facing him. "Again."

Closing her wide hazel eyes Leah nodded and swung the blades in her hand, stretching out her shoulders and re-organising her stance. She loved this feeling, the feeling of being trained, of being treated like she was more than what she was born to and more than what people expected from her life. Paul had graciously taken a chance on her, risked his own reputation and had come every day of his leave from the King's service to see her.

Within seconds they were together again, Leah stepping forward while Paul stepped back. His movements were precise and deadly, each of Leah's trained moves falling short against the much more experienced opponent. With each of her swings he fell back, twisting and manoeuvring out of her blades' range, making her hit nothing but air.

Grabbing Leah's collar, Paul pulled her forward, locking her arms by her side. "Don't think about hitting me, just hit me," he grinned, pushing her back and watching her tumble over herself as she collided with the green grass below them.

Growling, Leah sat on her haunches and shot him a deadly look, telling him she was over playing games. Her dark green dress was damp and covered in dirt, her cheeks smudged with earth, making her as intimidating as a child about to have a tantrum.

"There it is, little girl. That anger you feel, that hatred. Channel it, make it worth something and hit me."

Her teeth chattered in rage as he spoke, the handles of her blades becoming increasing damp around the bandaging.

Leaping forward, Leah roared as she sliced her blades through the air, gaining both distance and surprise from Paul. Bringing her arm up she felt an excruciating pain in her side, only to look down and see that he had shallowly cut just above her waist, the material of her dress ripping open.

Rage boiled inside her body, but before she could charge at him again she felt a swift breeze move across her neck, followed by her body hitting the ground and her world turning upside down.

Leaning over, a grinning Paul came into view, "Perhaps I was wrong to train you. Was I wrong, little girl?"

"No," she ground out, scurrying to get to her feet, blades in hand. "You weren't wrong. I can do this."

"Then show me."

Taking a stance across from her Paul twisted his foot and tapped his axe end against the grass.

"Again."

.

Walking on the opposite side of the large black horse Leah played idly with its long silk braided hair, rubbing it between her fingers before patting the animal's wide sturdy neck.

"How is your father, child? I have not seen him of late," Paul chuckled over Mihali's neck as they walked, guiding his steady stallion through the forest by the reins.

"He comes home soon from the Makah Nation. It's been three months," Leah replied, weaving her fingers against the beautiful horse's close fur.

"Ah, that explains it then. Tell me little miss, your brother, your mother, are they well?"

Leah creased her brow in frustration before pulling Mihali to a stop. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not a little girl anymore, Lahote," she spat walking around the horse to look him in the eye.

Amusement glittered in the man's eyes as he spoke, "You think you're a woman then?" he questioned smugly, "A woman who plays with swords, who wants to do as the soldiers do? I think not, young one. You are still a child, be free and play with childish things."

"I am not a child," Leah shrieked, moving to slap his cheek, only to have her wrist caught in his powerful grip.

"Careful, girl, you're playing with a fire you can't contain," he growled back, his nose brushing against hers, his onyx black eyes boring into her soul.

Without thinking, Leah pressed her lips against his, drawing down his head with her desperate hands. His lips were rough, just like a man's, just like she imagined. He tasted as he looked; both sweet and dangerous.

It took him all of two seconds to realise what was happening and to push her away. "Stop, right now!"

"Why?" Leah pleaded, trying to hold the man in place only to have him wriggle out of her grasp. "Why won't you have me?"

Running a frustrated hand through his hair Paul frowned, "You are much too young for me. I have seen many moons, unlike you," he countered, his eyebrow arching as she stepped closer.

"I'm old enough to marry now. Fifteen years is plenty old."

"I doubt your father would agree," Paul sighed as he held her hand in his. Harry would have his head in a guillotine before he de-flowered the only daughter of the Clearwater legacy. She was a woman meant for a king.

"I just want you..., want you to be my... my first," she muttered under her breath as she pulled her hand away slowly. "I just thought-"

Paul watched as she bit her lip in trepidation. "While you are a beautiful girl and the offer is unimaginable, I cannot take it from you. A physical union should only be between those in love, not-"

"But I do love you. You've taught me everything I know. The autumn is almost over and you will go back to the King's Nation and forget about me and everything here. I want you to remember me as a woman, and not a stupid little girl," she huffed, brushing her straight black hair over her shoulders.

"Leah, look at me," Paul whispered, grabbing her chin roughly when she tried to look away. "Only a foolish man would take something so pure away from you. Your innocence makes you divine. You do not want to waste it on an old man like me."

Touching the stubble of his cheek Leah unconsciously licked her lips, "Please, please give me this one thing."

While the offer was tempting his conscience would not be clear after such a treacherous act. Not even the anscetors themselves would be able to save his soul.

When he didn't reply she scowled, "Do I disgust you? Is my hair not long enough like Angela's? Are my breasts too small?" she snapped, mentioning the whore who often slept by his side when he frequented the LaPush Nation. "Maybe my legs aren't wide enough for you? Would you prefer me used and wet like the other men prefer?"

Paul gritted his teeth, "Enough. You have made your point. Run back to your family and enjoy them while you still can. A war is brewing in the west and there is no telling how long the king's men can hold them out. They move over the Nations like a plague. You should spend time with those you love rather than seeking the touch of a man."

Glancing briefly at her torn face he exhaled deeply, an emotion close to guilt running through his veins. "There are things you still do not understand little girl, so many things. Be grateful that you have not been taken in the middle of the night by one of your father's men. Unlike me, they are mongrels, scum pulled from the very depths of each cave among this Nation. They fight only for themselves, not for a people. I can't give you what you want."

Pushing her away from the beast, Paul mounted the horse quickly and held its reins tightly. Looking down at the girl, smudges of dirt covering her beautiful face, he exhaled tiredly.

Tears slipped quickly down her cheeks and he willed all he had inside him not to get down and give her what she wanted. "This is the last time you will see me."

"But you still have time left. Our training is not yet finished," Leah whispered as she held her elbows to stop her shaking body. Crying was for children.

"Goodbye, young Clearwater. This will be for the best."

Without another word Paul hoofed his steed and galloped east, back toward the town.

It was true that he still had time left, but he would rather spend his time with Angela, having his fill of a woman, and drinking ale with comrades. He did not want to waste it leading a child to believe that she was in love - with him of all people. That she somehow wanted him to lay her down and take the sparkle from her eyes and make it his own.

He wouldn't lead her on, wouldn't tie her to him. His future was filled with death, a glorious and worthy death. A death which would protect his people's lives and the little girl he had come to love.

.

"What'll it be, Lahote?" Smithson asked as he set down his rag on the counter.

"A glass of the strongest liquor you have," Paul replied as he pulled a gloved hand through his hair. With his band coming lose he pulled it from his chin length hair before tying the top half back and out of his face.

"You celebrating something in particular?" the grey haired man smirked as he placed a shot glass and bottle on the bench.

"It's nothing," Paul muttered, waving the old man off and reaching for the drink as soon as the liquor circled the top of the glass.

His eyes tightened as the shrill burn crept down his throat and on toward his chest. The sound of baritone laughter shot up in different directions of the bar, men enjoying themselves, women providing entertainment and allowing themselves to be at their every disposal.

Pulling on the leather straps of his harness across his chest, Paul jostled and evened out the weight of the heavy weapons on his back.

For hundreds of years each family had their weapons of choice. The Lahotes with their axes, a simple start as herders and shepherds of the forest, shining strong through his family's legacy. Wood from the old mahogany trees of the surrounding forests, topped with the brass and steel blades from the deepest caverns.

His weapon was a sign to opponents, a sign of whom he belonged to, of whom he fought for. His axe was his promise to a dwindling people, a people scared and on the brink of an oncoming war from the west, deep into Shadow Nation.

Only warriors with a chosen weapon, a crested weapon, were seen as noble men. All those who did not belong to a legacy bore the plain swords of Rawi, and while the blade was strong, the fighters were not.

"Lahote," Angela crooned as she slid to his side, her thin arms wrapping around his waist as he stood by the bar. Her long dark hair flowed elegantly over her shoulders, down her back and over the thin slip of silk she wore. "My warrior, you look tired. Come; let me ease your troubles."

"Not now," he growled, pushing her hand off him. "Smithson, another," he commanded as he slammed his glass down and pushed it across the bar.

"But," Angela attempted to speak, but was shot down with a sidewise glance the devil himself would fear.

"Has no woman any ears around here, or do I simply speak to make noise, rather than be heard?" he questioned as he pushed the glass to his dry lips and threw the sour liquor back.

Angela glared at him, tired of the wasted days waiting for him to come back from training the Clearwater girl in the woods. Had her father known Paul was training his daughter, a girl, in the ways of a warrior, Lahote would no longer be alive nor have lips with which to disrespect her.

"What's wrong, your girl warrior laughed at your admission of love?" Angela sniped lowly, hissing out her breath as her fingers held tightly to his sleeve to keep him close. "Did she finally realise what a fraud you are, that you're nothing but a washed up border keeper for the King? No, let me guess. Maybe she saw how pathetic you are after you make love, how you cry for your dead wife in a whore's arms," she laughed.

Gritting his teeth Paul moved quickly, unclasping the back hook to let the axe fall into his bent arm. Bringing the blade up before she could blink he pressed it sharply to the soft skin of her throat. His hands were shaking, his body like a coil ready to explode like a deadly cobra from the Far East.

"Never speak about her. Ever."

He growled, his eyes dancing around the room as he watched men in all directions pull Rawi swords from their hip holsters. Angela was nothing more than a whore, but in this establishment she was their whore, a whore they all enjoyed in the middle of the night when their beds grew cold or their laps lonely.

"Careful Lahote, not even your precious legacy can protect you here," she whispered, edging forward, daring the axe to pierce her soft flesh.

"His may not, but mine will," a deep voice rumbled from the back corner of the bar.

The man's black cloak hung over his face, its tail end dragging along the dusty floorboards as he stepped close; his equally black boots shook the wood foundations beneath them.

Sneering, Angela eyed the man, impressed she hadn't seen him earlier. His presence was a force of nature, a fiery thunder from the Gods. Standing as tall as a juggernaut, with shoulders as wide as the biggest stallions, he looked as though he was built by fire, ash and solid granite rock.

"Really?" Angela laughed, causing a choir of laughs to swirl around the bar. "Tell me, stranger, what makes you think your life means anything to these thieves, to these rapists, these lesser of men? What makes you think a legacy has any power here?"

As she spoke the men roared in excitement, loving the power she was giving them - the praise.

Paul stood back, unsure of the man and his intentions. He could feel a pressure in his neck, a feeling that uneased him and made his bones clatter under his skin.

It was then, in the middle of the laughing giants, Paul's spine stiffened and his eyes widened. He watched as the cloaked man pushed back his sleeve to reveal the Vekrahim sword, a sword he'd never seen before in his lifetime but had heard of since he was a boy. A sword he had believed in since he was a child on the lap of his grandfather. A sword that was supposed to be mythical.

Suddenly a pin could be heard falling to the dusty floor. The sword itself shone like white silver, its handle and bondages black. Paul gaped in amazement at the fine artwork of the blade, its double edges designed for inflicting maximum damage.

Tiny inscriptions in black script covered the sword, in the language only kings could read, the old language Paul had never been taught. He had once heard mutterings of the language a long time ago when he was a young man, under former General Khan, but never again.

Angela gasped, stumbling back into the crowd of now silent men. "It's not possible. That family died off a long time ago; my grandmother watched as the last descendant burned to the ground," she whispered, watching as the man turned the sword over and over again in his huge hands.

"Your grandmother was wrong," he muttered, pulling the black hood away from his face.

.

"Father," Leah cried as she raced to meet the men and horses at the gate of her family home.

"My darling daughter, let me look at you," Harry laughed, his large voice sounding among the men as the horses parted and his grey stallion came forth. He swept off the horse and landed on both feet, flicking the reins back over its neck.

Leah stood patiently as her father grabbed her arms and eyed her suspiciously. Biting her lip she waited until his inspection was done, his large hand rubbing his bearded chin. "This is not my daughter!" Leah stood perplexed for a moment until her father continued. "I left a little girl here, but before me is a beautiful woman. Who has taken my daughter from me? Tell me so that I may kill them where they stand," he grinned.

"Father," she laughed, barrelling into his large armoured chest and hugging him tightly.

"Ah my daughter, it has been long since I have seen your beautiful face. Just like your mother," he nodded, glancing to see his wife rushing down the path from their home.

"Harry," Susan sobbed, rushing faster as her daughter moved away from her father and toward the horses. Grabbing his hand and placing it against her lips she smiled as tears streamed down her cold blush cheeks, "You are finally here."

"I told you I would be back, my love," he replied, moving to cup her face and rub the apple of her cheek with his gloved hand. Kissing her softly he closed his eyes and smelt her hair, the scent leaving him dizzy and calm at the same time. The smell of a woman had become foreign over the months and it felt good to finally be home.

"Father, may I have this horse?" Leah whispered, stroking the grey horse's mane and watching it enjoy the heavy pampering it was receiving, "He's so beautiful."

"Aye, he is. Take him; every girl needs a strong and sturdy horse, so let him be your first."

"Thank you, Daddy," Leah squealed as she kissed his cheek and hugged his neck.

"The love of two beautiful women; this is too much," he chuckled.

Glancing behind Susan he frowned, awaiting the arrival of his young son. "What of Seth, what has become of my boy?" he asked, clearly concerned at the boy's non-attendance of his welcoming.

"You did not get our letters?" his wife asked as she held his palm to her face.

"No. The boarders were not sending out riders. Men were training," Harry answered, confused at the look on his wife's face. "Susan, where is my son?" he said more forcefully, looking to his wife before looking back at the men in his troop.

Stepping away, Harry made his way up the path, his brown boots kicking up loose dirt as he walked, "Seth!" he shouted, "Come meet your old man at his door."

Silence engulfed the house as Harry pushed open the door, fearing what every warrior fears: the safety not only of his entire family but of his only son. His son who would carry on his legacy when he himself was dead, leaving the world to swallow him into its endless abyss, while his kin lived on.

.