DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, Tolkien owns everything. Oh, except Erethien. She's mine, obviously.

A/N: This is not a ten-member fic, however much it looks like one. It is not a Legomance, or any other kind of romance. All reviews welcome, especially constructive criticism. I'm a glutton for punishment. I am keeping the whole thing as close to the book canon as I possibly can; any major errors pointed out are gratefully received.

The use of italics and '' denotes thoughts.

Many thanks to dreamingfifi and Esperanza Fuega for betaing this chapter!

ITHILDIEL

PROLOGUE

A small elfling paused in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder guiltily. She knew she was not supposed to be here. The faint glow of the approaching dawn played over her brown hair, and gleamed copper-gold on the rows of burnished steel on the armoury walls that the young ellethgazed at with such awe.

Carefully, the child approached one of the huge longswords on its low shelf, and traced a respectful finger along the weapon. She saw in her mind the warriors who had held the leather-bound hilt with strong fingers, felt in herself the thrill of adrenaline at the thought of hard muscles swinging it through the air to deadly effect.

'I could do that,' she though wistfully. 'I know I could.'

It was not in the nature of her race to long for bloodshed; the Elves were a peace-loving folk, not least in the Undying Lands. Yet the art of wielding weapons - for she indeed saw it as an art - was one that fascinated her. She was very young, scarcely more than twenty-five, yet she longed to try her hand at her father's trade: the trade of knowing instinctively how to use a blade to the greatest advantage, unnecessary though it might be in these times of peace. The child had no wish to fight, no wish for bloodshed.

She merely wished to learn. A love of legend and tales of high deeds had instilled in her a great respect for the ways of the sword. To learn those ways was an honour, a privilege. This child could see things that others of her age didn't and couldn't see; things that many of them never would. She seemed alone in seeing beauty in a sharp blade, glowing scarlet in her grandfather's forge, in seeing the deadly grace of the warrior as the ultimate perfection of existence. Other Elves gave those honours to the Vanyar - the fair-faced singers and lovers of music. She was not a beautiful child. She did not hold beauty to be the ultimate achievement, having lived all her life with so much around her.

Her gaze lingered on the longsword before she turned away regretfully. The weapon was far too heavy for her to lift; it was almost taller than she was. Frustration surged through her momentarily, to be followed by an odd satisfaction.

'You are a worthy adversary, sword of my father, and of his father before him. When I am ready, when I am worthy, I shall wield you. And then I shall indeed be grown.' The child did not consciously think this; rather she felt it, knowing it to be true. She had never tried her hand at this art, but cherished a private hope that she had the gift.

The child approached another shelf, where a smaller short sword lay in its scabbard. Lifting the sword from the wall with a great effort and the utmost care, she pulled it clear of the sheath, gaze travelling along the steel shining so coldly in the semi-darkness. She stood up with the blade balanced across her palms, feeling the chill steel warm at the heat of her skin.

A bird called outside and she jumped violently, and the weapon slipped to the floor from her small hands. Instinctively, she reached out to catch it, and gave a short cry when she felt a sharp pain as the edge cut into her palm. She quickly stifled the sound, and looked at her hand. The child watched, awed, as red blood flowed from the long, deep wound. Power was in this sword. Such power. Such deadly grace.

She wiped her hand on her short tunic and touched the weapon, leaving a trickle of blood on the bright steel. The elleth shivered and sighed, wiping the hilt with the hem of her tunic. With an almost guilty glance out of the door, she slid the weapon back into its scabbard and, lifting it carefully, replaced the sword on the shelf, wiping the leather as she stepped away wistfully. Unconsciously, out of long habit, the child closed her hand around a dark stone that hung round her neck. 'This is how I was meant to be.' She smiled a little, liking the thought. 'Oh, Ada! Why will you not let me learn?'

She knew the answer well. Their family was four; it should have been six. Nelladel and Limbadhor had been born in Middle-Earth long before their sister's time. The child had known neither brother nor sister; both siblings had been killed violently in a skirmish just east of Mirkwood, at the ages of only four and two hundred - very young in the eyes of their people. Many warriors had lost their lives that bloody day, but this did not dull the heartache of her parents. Their mother had been devastated, comforted only by her husband and remaining child.

Lalaithien was the third child of the family, and the oldest now living. She was the black sheep of the family, for Lalaithien was a dancer, light of heart in name and nature. The elleth was slender and slight in sharp contrast to her younger sister, and dancing was her passion. When she danced, she felt utterly free; something which bewildered her younger sister, for whom it often seemed that life was but a complex arrangement of rules and restrictions.

After the death of his oldest children, the child's father, Limcost, had become bitter and angry, afraid that he would lose his remaining daughters, even in the Blessed Realm. He blamed his late children's aptitude for their weapons, and refused to allow either remaining daughter to learn weapons beyond the basics of archery. Archery held no appeal for the child. She had a fair enough aim, but was nothing out of the ordinary, and knew she never would be. Reasonable competency was about the highest she would ever achieve in archery. She got no satisfaction from it, had never seen it as something particularly worth aspiring to. Many Elves were archers. Archery was not the stuff of legend; it held no awed fascination for her.

Many of her elders were surprised and a little disturbed at her passionate interest in swordplay - which was rapidly growing to be an obsession. She would sit in the library for hours on end, poring over tales of battles and sword fights in her father's books of lore, only to shut the heavy volumes with a guilty slam every time someone walked into the room. The child's loves and hates were strong and unhindered, little in keeping with the rest of her kind. Yet she went her way unaware, undaunted by her passions.

A bird called outside, and a muffled call was heard from within the house.

"Erethien!"

The child backed hastily out of the armoury and ran out into the dawn. The golden light of Anor played over her small, slight form, which one day would be tall and broad, built for strength and built for speed. Amber rays sparkled in her young eyes as she gazed in innocent wonder at the sky. The light gleamed on her hands, running crimson as she stood heedless, the cut from the blade forgotten. Erethien smiled, unaware, as the golden rays caught the snow on Taniquetil, the mountaintop sparkling as if with thousands of diamonds.

The pendant caught the rays of sunlight, gleaming darkly. Traces of blood glistened on the obsidian blackness as the child stood in the dawning, a young figure with bloody hands.

Elleth - 'elf maiden'

Erethien - 'lady of solitude'

Lalaithien - 'lady oflaughter'

Limbadhor - 'swift judge'

Limcost - 'swift quarrel'

Nelladel - 'ringing of bells'