Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, that goes t Tolkien, and Peter Jackson, two men who's genius is far greater than I. I also so not own any information or characters from Born of Hope, that amazing story goes to the 'Actors at Work Productions'. I only own Rhelin, Rigwyn, Seon, Onyveth, Tycyn, Owagwyn, Tháron, Romon, Tinadrieldur, Æsa, Míriel II, and Tirith.

Warning: There is blood, fighting and swearing in this chapter.

Name pronunciation:

Rhelin - Rae - a - lin

Rigwyn - Rig - win

Tycyn - Tie - can

Owagwyn - Oh - wag - in

Seon - Sea - on

Onyveth - On- ii - veth

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,

SA 3319

The Drowning of Númenor, that was what historians would later learn to call it. They ignored the tragic events that took place, only remembering the subtle truth - that Númenor sunk because of one King's foolish actions. Ancient scrolls and texts told the story of how King Ar-Pharazôn dedicated his loyalty to Morgoth's greatest and most powerful servant Sauron. After years of planning, and the building of a vast army, the King, finally decided to cross the forbidding seas of the West.

No one knew what happened that day, but many assumed that the Last King of Númenor drowned in his battle to find the Valinor or in the common tongue, the Undying Lands, a place where Man could never go. However, the greed of Ar-Pharazôn still lingered within his people, and through Sauron, the people of Númenor had become corrupted, turning away from the Valar and Eru and worshipping Morgoth.

But not everyone had embraced the lies that Sauron and King Ar-Pharazôn spread and so, as the Manwë, chief of the Valar, called upon Ilúvatar to destroy the land of Númenórë, nine stolen boats slipped out of the eastern coast, carrying the Faithful away from the dangerous waters and to Middle-earth.

The Faithful only brought the clothes on their back; the seven Palantíri stones; the Sceptre of Annúminas; the Ring of Barahir and Narsil. Where those items power are now, are mostly unknown, but on that fateful day they were either shoved deep into their pockets or strapped to their side, in fear of an attack.

It is on one of these boats where our story begins, with a small family, whose fate had yet to be decided, and through one of the children of Seon, a great warrior would rise from the ashes of their past and determine the fate of Middle-earth.

Rhelin daughter of Seon desperately tried to grip onto her brother - Tycyn - as several humungous waves crashed, bobbed and threw the family of four across the deck. Their clothes scratched at their skin, rubbing it raw and their hair, dark and lifeless clung to their necks like leeches.

Rigwyn, Rhelin's eldest brother, reached out to grab his younger siblings as they rocketed past. He just had enough time to grab Rhelin and Tycyn by the hem of their cloaks and pull them close as a behemothic wave crashed down onto their ship, scattering everything in sight.

'RIGWYN!' screamed Rhelin as she and Tycyn clung to their eldest brother's shoulders. 'WHERE'S OWAGWYN?'

Rigwyn's sea coloured eyes widened in astonishment, and before Rhelin could even breathe, he had ripped himself away from his siblings and vaulted his lanky body into the ruined and very water clogged deck.

'RIGWYN!' Tycyn cried, but the second son of Seon's voice was suppressed by a tremendous crackle of lightning that reached out to the boat like a tree branch before striking the ship.

'The mast,' gasped Rhelin, as her eyes settled on the burning timber that rose above her, threatening to pull the ship down to its watery grave. 'Oh by Eru Ilúvatar, I have to - I must-'

Suddenly another wave crashed against the deck, ripping Tycyn away from his sister.

'RHELIN!' yelled Tycyn, but it was too late.

Rhelin could only watch in horror as the second son of Seon was taken back by the cursed wave, his burly arms trying desperately to cling onto any part of the ship -

Through the chaos, a hand suddenly reached out in front of the young Lord. Tycyn's own latched out, and with one simple tug, the Blacksmith was pulled out of his watery grave by the towering figure of Lord Elendil.

Rhelin closed her eyes, releasing the breath that she had somehow kept, as the Tall One, pushed Tycyn's staggering body further up the ship. Somewhere along the way between Númenor and Middle-earth, the ship had sprung a leak, causing the bow of the boat to rise out of the water and this was where the men, women and children now stood, all huddled together as they tried to stay warm.

'Rhelin!' cried Tycyn as the soaking wet figure of Rigwyn exploded out of the water, half dragging, half carrying Owagwyn by his shoulder. 'Come here!'

The daughter of Seon nervously glanced to Elendil, whose arm was outstretched toward her. But Rhelin had other ideas.

Before her conscience could break free from the terror that clouded her mind, Rhelin reached behind her back to where her long knives were strapped to her lower back. The knives had once belonged to her mother, given to her by a passing Elf long forgotten. They were implements of incredible power, so great, that Sauron the Deceiver had tried to snatch them away.

Before anyone could shout, Rhelin ripped them free from their scabbards and cut her dress above the knee. If the situation hadn't been desperate, Rhelin's brothers would have screamed at her for the indecency, unfortunately for the sons of Seon, their voices had all but disappeared; they could only watch in horror as their baby sister wrapped the shredded fabric around her soaking hair. The woman glanced back up to the burning mast, her plan swimming around in her head before she kicked off her shoes and leapt onto the slippery mast, her knives slicing through the wood like butter.

Rhelin's grunted as her feet slipped, causing her arms to cry out in pain but the woman had climbed enough trees back in Númenor to know that if she stopped, her mussels would fail her. So, as quickly as she dared, Rhelin climbed the timber, stealing glances every so often to her brother's fearful faces as Elendil watched on with an expression Rhelin couldn't quite place - was it fear, or determination.

Whatever it was, it fuelled Rhelin's determination that by the time the woman managed to swing herself up into the topmost yard, she knew what she had to do. But now, the fire was larger and very ferocious, causing Rhelin to pause, her eyes unnaturally large.

Fear coursed through her veins like a bad cold; her arms and legs froze like an iceberg, and the little voice in the back of her head was screaming at her to run.

Fire, - fire had killed her father.

'RHELIN, YOU NEED TO BREAK THE MAST!'

It was Owagwyn. Rhelin glanced down. Through the rigging, musky smoke and torrential rain, she could just see his waving hands, encouraging her to move on.

Out of all the children of Seon and Onyveth, their two youngest looked most like their mother. Both had the red-brown hair that once adorned their mother's face and the dapple grey eyes that at one point could have lit up a room.

Eyes once full of curiosity and love - now replaced with fear and that horrible hollow feeling that you only got when you saw your home destroyed.

'YOU CAN DO IT RHELIN!' Elendil roared, his grey eyes fixed on the woman's terrified face. Rhelin took a breath; gripped her knives and charged head first into the flames. Several women screamed out, their breath catching in their throats as Rhelin cried out in pain. Rhelin's knees buckled as she cradled her hand. It was red and swollen like a volcano, the burn ripping through her rough skin like water.

A string of curse words left her lips that if her father had been alive, he would have surely punished her for her language. But her father was dead, - dead because of a fire they could not stop, and as Rhelin stared at the flickering flamed above she couldn't help but wonder how much longer she could carry on.

Rigwyn barely had time to pull Lord Elendil out of the way as one of Rhelin's long knives fell from the sky, landing right where the Lord had once stood. With a heavy heart, Rhelin bit down on her pain; wrapped both hands around the deadly knife and with one tremendous thwack, rammed her blade against the wood, right above the burning flame.

The knife shuddered, and Rhelin gritted her teeth as the vibrations travelled throughout her whole body, ripping at her burn. With a tug, the blade was free and then - THWACK - the blade was buried in the mast again.

For several, long, agonising minutes, Rhelin kicked, hit, pushed and slashed at the mast, and it was only when the boat suddenly lurched to the right, did the woman realise that the mast had snapped into. Rhelin was thrown the left, her knife ripping out of her grip.

'LIN!' screamed Rigwyn and he dived forward as his sister lost her grip, the knife following behind her. The woman screamed as she fell towards the deck, her red hair reminding the children of Seon all too well of the dangerous flames that had destroyed their home.

The burning mast fell too, narrowly missing Rhelin's face by several inches before it was smothered by a rolling wave that crashed against the ship. Her mind spun, turning her stomach inside out; her hair and face were sweaty and her heart - although beating ferociously - had disappeared somewhere between her uterus and her feet. Tycyn jumped out of the way as the second knife, now blunt and bent, spun through the air before embedding itself into the desk, right where his feet had once been.

It was Lord Elendil who caught her. Somewhere between screaming and falling, Rhelin realised that she was safely tucked in the arms of the Tall One. Rigwyn was the first to reach her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders as she was placed on the deck, shaking, burnt and very wet.

'That was crazy!' her brother whispered as he pressed his forehead to her own. 'Crazy! Reckless and downright mad! Promise me you won't scare me like that again,'

Rhelin grinned.

'How could I do that Rig?' she asked as she pushed a strand of his wet hair away from his face and behind his ear. 'You're more reckless than I am.'

Rigwyn chuckled before burying his little sister into his chest as Owagwyn and Tycyn gathered round their adventurous sister.

'Look!' a small child suddenly cried, causing the four to pull away from their embrace. 'Mama! Look! I see land!'

Sure enough, through the dense fog and thundering rain, the faint trace of land glinted merrily at the Númenóreans. Elendil released a great sigh of relief, and as the son of Amandil glanced towards the rocky ground, he whispered,

'Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth, I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.'

Rhelin frowned, she knew Quenya, a language far more beautiful than the tongue of Númenor, however, that didn't mean she knew what the Lord meant. Whatever the case, Rhelin was glad to finally be safe, to away from the cursed hand of Sauron and more importantly, Númenor.

If only she'd known, that in a few short years, Sauron would return, One Ring in hand, and start a bloodthirsty war that would be fought in the shadows for another age. A war so deadly that it would only be completed when Rhelin was old, weary and far, far too adventurous to stay put.

TA 2933

Two solum figures and a lone horse slowly danced over the grasslands of Harador, the southern region of Gondor. If caught, the two would most likely be killed, but as the two woman hurried between the decaying bodies of Men and Orcs, they had a more pressing matter at hand.

'Is he here?' asked the Elf, her hand tense as she touched the sword of her father. Westron was a harsh language, compared to the peaceful tranquillity of Sindarin, the Elf found it rather difficult to wrap her tongue around the grunting and spitting that the Dúnedain uttered.

'Yes,' whispered the Ranger, her dapple eyes as sharp as Gwaihir the Windlord, Lord of all the Great Eagles. 'I can hear him. Can you, Arwen?'

'Absolutely,' the Elf, who was more commonly known as Lady Arwen, whispered. 'He is close, but…but I'm afraid Tirith, we may be too late,'

Tirith sighed, her shoulders hunched. She had suffered, undergone many things that a human should not have seen and as the Elf nervously stole glances at her friend, Tirith looked positively ancient. Her red-brown hair that was hidden by the fold of her cloak suddenly looked grey and thinner; her skin was wrinkled like the bark of a tree and her eyes, now the colour of rain no longer held the fire that once glinted.

'I had a feeling we might be,' admitted Tirith as she straightened, a small frown etched on her face.'However, we must return him to his family.'

'He is not alone,' breathed Arwen as she kicked the body of an orc out of her path. 'My brothers are with him,'

'Hmm, I suspected as much,' mumbled Tirith, one hand on the horse's mane. 'Elladan and Elrohir. Just what I needed.'

'They're not that bad,' grimaced Arwen as she tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her sculpted ear. Tirith snorted.

'The last time we met they tried to decapitate me!'

'I promise that they will not harm you,' said Arwen and then, the Elf smiled. 'Are you afraid, old friend?'

'My fears have already happened,' replied Tirith, her grip on her blades tightening. 'I was banished by Isildur. That was my greatest fear, and unfortunately for his descendant, that banishment still takes place to this day.'

Tirith sighed, pausing for a second to glance towards the two Elven figures who sat beside the figure of a dying man as they tried to bind his wounds.

'Come on Arwen,' whispered Tirith as she sheathed her blades, the sound drawing the attention of the sons of Elrond. 'Let's get this over with,'

As the two approached, their long cloaks hiding their faces, Elladan and Elrohir rose, and for the first time in a long time, Tirith felt sorry for the two twins.

'My Lords,' declared Tirith, her tongue purposely pronouncing her words as she swooped into a small bow. However, Arwen didn't follow pursuit; they were her brothers after all. To Tirith, Sindarin wasn't a straightforward language, however, she found Quenya far simpler and more beautiful a language to speak and to understand.

'Why are you here Tirith,' hissed Elladan as he stepped in front of his dying friend, a hand resting on his blade. 'He will live,'

'That is where you are wrong Elladan son of Elrond,' snapped Tirith, her lips tightening in a thin line. 'He will die. I have seen it,'

'And who told you that you could look beyond the unknown?' asked Elrohir, as he joined his brother. Tirith raised an eyebrow and removed her hands from her blades. There unscripted in the ancient language of Adûnaic, the Language of the West, the words "Seer" and "Guard" adorned her wrists.

'You know who I am sons of Elrond; I helped birth you when you were nothing but babes. Do not question what I can and cannot do,'

Elladan's stone coloured eyes narrowed, and the Elf was about to step forward and challenge the woman when someone stopped him.

'No,' the gasping voice of the dying man whispered, Sindarin barely brushing passed his lips. 'Let them take me. Let them take me back to my wife and son. Do not deny me the privilege that my ancestors had before me,'

Elladan and Elrohir sighed and glanced nervously at each other before parting; revealing the disfigured body of the dying man. His right eye was bloody and mutated, the remnants of an orcish arrowhead embedded in his brain, the poison slowly killing him; his right pointer finger was missing, the signet ring of his father forever gone - but the Ring of Barahir was somehow forever clutched in his grip. What dangers had that ring seen? Too many for Tirith to count by hand. How many deaths had it carried through the centuries?

Far too many.

'My, my,' whispered Tirith in the language of men, as she collapsed to her knees, beside the man's head, 'what a right mess you've managed to get yourself into, Steadfast King,'

The man chuckled.

'I suspect you've seen worse, Guard,'

'Yes,' admitted Tirith, 'but that does not mean it is any less painful to see my King die,'

'I am no King,' admitted the man. Tirith snorted.

'You may not sit on the Throne of Gondor, but that does not mean that in the eyes of your people - of the Dúnedain - you are our King. Now, where do you want me to take you?'

'To the edge of Tawar-in-Drúedain,' whispered the man. Tirith nodded and rose to face the three Elves.

'Could one of you please get him up onto Húro?'

It was Elrohir who stepped forward. Carefully, the son of Elrond picked up the dying man and gently placed him on the back of the horse, but not before the Elf grabbed the Ranger's arm his nails biting into her skin.

'If his body does not return to his wife and child then for Eru's sake, I will end you,'

Tirith smiled and ripped her arm away from the Elf's grip.

'I wouldn't expect anything else less Lord Elrohir,' said Tirith. Before Elrohir could even move, the Ranger had grabbed the reigns of the horse and had begun to walk in the direction of The Drúadan Forest.

'Oh, and Arwen,' cried the woman, causing the Elf to glance up. 'Go back home. I'll see you soon enough,'

'But-' the Elf cried, but it was too late, Tirith had already nudged the horse into a run.

As the woman ran beside the dying man she wondered how his people would take to seeing her again, after all, it had been nearly three years since his father had died, and like their Chieftain, she too had carried Arador back to them.

And so, as Tirith and Húro carefully manoeuvred their way over the lush hills and grasslands towards the Drúadan Forest and into the unknown, she wondered how much longer the heir of Isildur could hold on.

TA 3018

Isengard wasn't exactly unfamiliar territory for Tirith. However, that didn't mean she felt safe. For several years, the guard of Isildur had watched Saruman the White through the tiniest seeing stone, or Palantíri, that the Tall One had taken from Númenor. It had been a gift, a present, bestowed upon on her by King Elendil for services in battle and for the protection of his eldest son's life, a life that she utterly failed to save in the end.

Her plan was insane, rather daring. She was going to spy on Saruman himself. Nobody had managed to accomplish the enormous task of following the White Wizard, Tirith had just been the first to put her crazy plan into action. Apparently, Isengard wasn't supposed to be climbed. Unfortunately, Tirith only discovered that when she was halfway up the bloody thing.

Her hands shook, reminding Tirith of an old man holding a tankard, spilling the content of his drink on his shirt, and the heart that had kept her going for so long beat a little too fast. It pounded in her chest, ringing as loud as a bell in her ears.

Her stomach wasn't helping either. Somewhere between the first level and the ground, it had started doing somersaults, causing the woman's neck to feel hot and her eyes to dilate. Fear was man's worst enemy, and as Tirith clung to a ridge lodged in the stone tower, the Ranger was absolutely terrified.

'Come on, Tirith,' Tirith whispered to herself, as she glanced up at the sky. 'You're almost there, - almost there,'

With a deep breath, Tirith pushed her aching legs and wrapped her half-gloved fingers around a small ledge. Tirith let loose a little scream as she dropped several feet. Her hands wildly lashed out, grabbing nothing but air.

A bright blue light, as dark and colourful as the sapphires that were once embedded in the crown of King Ar-Pharazôn, exploded from Tirith's neck. A rope of blue light latched onto the windowsill as if it were an extension of the Ranger's upper hand. For several long seconds, the Ranger just hung, her limbs too sore to be comfortable, her heart beating way too vigorously for Tirith not to notice.

Eventually, once her heart had slowed, the Ranger stretched her sore fingers; blew a strand of her long hair out of her face and glanced up to survey the damage.

'If I'm going to make it into Saruman's throne room, I've got to make sure that I get the jump right,' whispered Tirith, her eyes narrowed. Making sure that her feet were safely embedded in a large crack, the Ranger breathed a deep sigh, steadying her breath, and before she could convince herself otherwise, jumped.

Saruman's throne room wasn't something to be desired. It was dark, gloomy and frightfully cold, that as Tirith snuck into the room, her back to an arched wall, she never expected the sight that greeted her. Gandalf the Grey stood, his feet planted in front of a pair of closed doors, his staff extended as he pointed it at Saruman.

Olórin of the Maiar, stood poised, his face just as unreadable when Tirith had first met him nearly two thousand and eighteen years ago. That man had grown, not just in strength and character, but through wisdom and knowledge, however, that didn't mean he was as determined and stubborn as a newborn calf.

'Tell me, friend…' gasped Gandalf, his lip curling into a snarl. 'When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason for madness?'

Tirith's eyes widened as Saruman lifted his staff and the Grey Wizard rose, his feet lifting off the ground like a bird in flight before throwing him against the wall as if were a bag of flour. Tirith's knives slashed as she lurched towards Saruman, her teeth bared, but Curunír was ready.

The White Wizard suddenly turned as the Ranger appeared out of the shadows and before Tirith could enact her Ring, the walls suddenly sprung to life. The Ranger screamed as the stone pushed her forward, knocking her swollen body to the ground. Pain ricocheted throughout her chest; her ribs burned like iron.

The Istari turned towards a groaning Gandalf, and before Tirith could cry out, he had violently moved his staff across his face. Gandalf suddenly rose again, as he was a rag doll before being flung against the opposite wall. And then, like the strange Voodoo Dolls that Tirith had seen being made by a clan of Witches, the Grey Wizard was thrown up into the air.

Saruman barely had time to advance on Gandalf before Tirith lunged at him. This time, her blades met skin, and as the ruby red liquid beaded down the knife, Saruman stumbled. The Ranger advanced, both swords flashing darkly in the light of the cold room. But Saruman had the upper hand.

The White Wizard threw his staff up, knocking the Ranger to the floor. Tirith's world spun as the butt of a staff was suddenly embedded across her throat. The Ranger lashed out, her fists hitting nothing but air - and then the staff was off her.

Somewhere, in the confusion, Gandalf had managed to drop to the ground and with a wordless spell had thrown Saruman onto his back. Tirith's vision darkened as each wizard, the White and the Grey flung wordless spells their bodies going one way and then the other. Blood curdled on the floor beneath each man, forever smeared into their robes and as Tirith tried to rise, Saruman once again, raised his staff.

Gandalf cried out in pain as Curunír pointed his staff at him and spun him around and around. The sight was enough for Tirith to retch.

And then Saruman was across the room, and into his private study. Tirith's eyes widened, and she stumbled to her feet as Saruman rose and threw out his hand. Olórin's staff was ripped from his grasp. Tirith cried out as the ancient wood came flying towards her.

Tirith rolled, her bones and mussels crying out in protest as the staff flew over her head and into the hand of Saruman. The White Wizard advanced on Gandalf; both staffs clasped in his gnarled hands. With a tremendous effort, the Wizard spun both staffs around and around, causing Gandalf to spin in circles.

'I gave you the chance of aiding me willingly,' snarled Saruman, momentarily forgetting the Ranger, as Tirith rose, her feet silently gliding over the stone. 'But you...have elected...the way of pain!'

With that, Curunír lifted both staffs, sending Olórin high up into the roof of Isengard, his body still circling unnaturally. It was at that moment that Tirith took her chance. The Ranger leapt high, jumping greater than any man, before landing on the tall frame of Saruman. The White Wizard thrashed, his long fingers wrapping around her red-brown hair, trying to pull her off him. But Tirith held fast; her legs forever locked around Curunír's waist.

Tirith screamed, as her back crashed onto the stone ground and as the Wizard struck her across the face with his staff, she heard the horrible crunching sound of her bones breaking.

'Curunír,' gasped the Ranger and she stared up into the wizard's dark eyes. 'Why? Why are you doing this?'

'Why do you think?' hissed Saruman, his lip curling as he spoke, his gaze glaring down on the Ranger. Tirith's eyes widened in realisation, and her breath hitched.

'Sauron,' she whispered, confirming her fears. But Saruman ignored her, and he raised his staff, before smashing his staff onto her right hand.

Tirith screamed and her grip on her blade faltering as the bones shattered.

But before Saruman could swap to her other hand, Tirith lunged again, smacking her clenched fist right into his jaw. The wizard collapsed, his White Robes billowing behind him. Quickly before the wizard could rise, Tirith ran towards the closed doors.

With her right hand now clutched to her chest, the Ranger pulled on the door, her fingers slipping under the crack in the doorframe. However, the wood didn't budge. With a roar, Tirith kicked the door. Pain exploded around her already exhausted foot, and the woman let loose a string of curse words.

'So,' whispered Saruman as he rose causing Tirith to whirl around in fright, her dark eyes wide. 'This is all Númenor can offer?'

He laughed.

'What a waste!'

And then Tirith did something reckless. She lunged toward the White Wizard. The woman dove in front of Saruman, gliding under the wizard's legs, like an autumn leave being whisked away in a stream, before she snatched her blades from the floor. The Ranger stumbled, her heart pounding like a drum, and before Saruman could even whirl around to catch her, Tirith had hopped onto the windowsill and glanced down.

The Wizard paused, as he watched her face pale as her gaze fixed on the ground below her. Her head spun, her breath quickened, and her eyes dilated. It was a long way down. And then, with a deep breath, the woman steadied her legs and with a tremendous push, threw herself out of the window.

She fell, down, hair whipping her face.

The smell of orc clouded her nostrils, but Tirith closed her eyes, her head spinning far more violently than she expected. The Last Ring of Man stayed dull and quiet and so as the Immortal Ranger fell to her death and into the unknown, she wondered how angry Elrond would be when he discovered that she was dead.