Author note: Only the OCs and their storylines are mine. There will be a little break before I update again. Chapter five and a bit of six have been written :) Just thought I'd get these first four out quickly as they've been hanging around for months before I had the guts to publish. I can see that I've had almost 70 views on my first few chapters already in just a few hours which is unbelievable! I'm so grateful you've all given this story your time. I would love it if some of you who've enjoyed it, or think I could work on something, would leave a review, or even (if you feel like it) click that cheeky little follow/fave button! As an encouragement (bribery?) now it's time for... that elf. If Keren even notices him, being as besotted with Faramir as she is. Although she should be, he's a literary dish! See you in a few days x

Chapter four - Keren's prophecy

The Lady Eowyn was awake to watch the sun set through her window from her bed. Keren entered the room to see her looking grave.

"How are you faring my lady?" she asked. "Do you feel well rested now?"

The lady turned her sad gaze on Keren, and she was shocked to see that Ioreth was indeed right, and her eyes were empty of hope and peace.

"I am rested," Eowyn said, turning her face once more to the sun. Her voice was low and sad. "I thank you for the care you have shown me."

She was so serious, so solemn. Keren wondered if she had ever once smiled in her life, for she could not picture such an expression on her face.

"'Tis my duty my lady, but also a pleasure," Keren said. "It brings me great joy when I see my work is helping others to be well."

Eowyn did not reply.

"I will bring you some food," Keren offered. "It will do you much good to eat now you are awake."

Eowyn nodded once. Keren quietly retreated from the room.

If that is what all ladies from Rohan are like, life must be very dull there, thought Keren. She is so sad. I do not think I can cure her of that.

Once Keren had prepared the lady a light evening meal, the sun was truly set. Her work was finally over and she rejoiced in the promise of a proper meal, then rest.

She started off for the kitchens, but before she knew what she was doing, her feet were taking her to the warden's room and to Faramir.

Beregond was still stationed outside, but did not comment on her appearance. Instead he pointed into the room, then put a finger to his lips.

He's telling him about his father, Beregond mouthed to her.

She looked sadly into the room, remembering how hard it was for her when her mother died. The warden was there, talking in a low voice to Faramir, looking haggard and ill. Faramir's face was drawn. She stood awkwardly at the threshold, wishing she had not come.

"Keren?" The warden noticed her. "Is it not your rest time now? Go to bed child."

Keren found her mouth was dry and she could not speak. Faramir was looking at her intently. She swallowed and willed herself to say something.

"I thought I would check once more on the lord Faramir, as he was originally in my care," she said. "And now I see he is better, so I will go."

She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Faramir's voice called her back. "I – I have not thanked you. I have been told you sat with me and watched over me for all my time here, until I awoke. I thank thee Keren, daughter of Maleron, for demonstrating the love you have for me."

Keren blanched, eyes flying to the warden's face.

"It is a love we all feel for thee," Keren whispered, mortified.

"Aye, lord." The warden agreed, appearing to hear nothing untoward in Faramir's comment. "The whole city holds you in great renown. Glad we all are to see you returning to health. Would you not agree Keren?"

Keren smiled weakly at Faramir, whose eyes, she felt, were boring into hers.

"It fills my heart with joy, my lord," she said. "And now I will bid you goodnight."

"Will you come to me in the morning, once you are rested?" he asked. "I would rather have the care of the one who sat faithfully by my side through my darkest hours."

She looked awkwardly at the warden. She could not refuse, she knew, and neither could he ignore the will of his lord. He gave a small nod in agreement.

"Yes my lord," she said, "I will be here in the morning."

"Then goodnight for now," he replied. "Rest well."

"Good night, my lord. Good night, sir," she added to the warden, and left.

She went then to the kitchens to collect some food. Once in the refectory she mechanically ate a hearty meal of hot stew and warm bread. She did not touch the cheap wine that had been provided, as she knew just a few sips would make her head swim, tired as she was. The other few healers who were sharing these rest hours with her were as silent as she, all with their own thoughts and not having the energy for much conversation.

After she had had her fill of food and water she walked not to her room but to the gardens. Even though it was now full dark, she needed fresh air in her lungs and a clear head before she would be able to sleep, she knew. The past few days' events would be swirling around in her head if she lay down to sleep now. She had twelve hours given to her. Ten of those she was hoping to give to sleep, one she had just spent in the refectory, but one she wanted to give to solitude, reflection and peace.

And, I hope, a warm bath, she thought dreamily.

The gardens were deserted, the halflings and their visitors obviously long gone. She walked slowly over to the wall where she had stood – oh, it felt a year ago now, but was only a matter of days – when she had seen the Pelennor crowded with the enemy ready to attack. Now the fields lay barren, except for the poor folk sent out to collect and bury the bodies of both friends and foe. She was thankful that it was too gloomy and she too high up to see just how many bodies there were.

She raised her eyes to the sky, and saw a few stars shining through the gaps in the clouds. The moon was large and full, casting an eerie glow on all around her. It was better than the total blackness she had encountered the last time she had stood there.

She placed her small hands on the cold stone of the wall and took a deep breath in and out, imagining the stone absorbing all her troubles as she exhaled. Then she took off her white healer's scarf and let her hair down from the pins that had held it in place. It fell dark and untidy down past her shoulders. She immediately relaxed a little, feeling more herself, and far more comfortable.

The view from where she stood, however, was frightening and did little to ease her mind. The mountains of the black land formed a dark ridge of malice in the east. There were strange fires, thunder and lightning crashing above them, as if behind them in the black land there brewed a great storm just waiting to be unleashed on the world. Keren knew that although the battle for Minas Tirith was won, the battle against the dark lord of Mordor was yet to come, and that would be a far more terrible ordeal for the world.

Everyone else was staying inside, those fortunate enough to be having their respite sensibly attempting to sleep. She wondered what she was doing out there, why she had chosen to stand at that spot. But it felt right, to look the enemy almost in the face, to see what doom was coming. The fires of Mordor seemed to stretch towards her, casting strange shadows, even in the gardens themselves. She wondered what she must look like, standing staring morbidly out at the desolation. She thought she must look very strange, like something out of a legend from the past. But then she chuckled to herself. No, she was just plain, ordinary Keren.

Now the lady Eowyn, she looks more than ordinary somehow, she thought.

Whether it was the lady's royal blood, or something deeper inside, a strange fire was in and around her, almost like wrath, despite her external coldness. She was beautiful though, Keren admitted, even in her illness – perfectly in proportion, tall and slender, with shining yellow hair falling to her waist. She had a long, noble face which held a strange, sad beauty. With her fey and distant manner, Keren thought the lady looked like a she-elf.

Not that she had ever seen an elf, but she had read many tales of them over the years. Her mother had also told her many stories – her favourites were of Lord Glorfindel the balrog slayer, and of the half-elven Lord Elrond and his sons, who were still alive somewhere way beyond the mountains in the north. Such stories had filled her head for as long as she could remember and they had become an important part of who she was. She longed to see an elf, just to know if they really were as beautiful and powerful as the stories said.

Keren smiled wryly to herself. She was nothing like the fair lady of Rohan, being small and dark, and definitely not elf-like. Her brown hair – mud-coloured it had been called in the past – was long but impossible to control, and her face she knew was attractive only when viewed from the correct angle. She was slightly vain of her small waist and rounded hips, but felt her breasts were sadly lacking. Palen had once caught her stuffing spare bandages down her bodice. She cringed at the memory, then checked herself for thinking of such trivial things when she could be reliving the conversation that had just passed.

She had just come from Faramir's bedside. He had asked her to go to him in the morning. He had wished her goodnight. His words seemed to hover around her in a happy, golden haze.

She realized she was tired of being alone. Palen had married last year – her husband was a young soldier named Dannor. Palen lived with him in the fourth level of the city when they were not on duty, leaving Keren alone in their room within the Houses, which she chose to stay in during her days off rather than return to her father's small house to sleep.

Her father, although he had not remarried after her mother's passing, was content and busy with his work and therefore had little time for his daughters.

Keren was kept busy with her own work at the Houses, but in quiet moments like this missed her mother and the times that were gone.

But now Faramir, against all the odds, had returned to her. Had he recognised the words of the prophecy? Would he now look at her with love?

Her life would change if he did. With the Lord Denethor and his eldest son dead, she would be the love – perhaps even the wife? – of the new steward of Gondor.

Except maybe I won't, she suddenly realised.

Elessar.

If he truly were the new King of Gondor, then the stewards' role would become obsolete. They would no longer be needed and Faramir would be… what? Suddenly nothing?

Not that it mattered – it was not greatness she desired, it was just him.

But then the prophecy, would that still hold to be true if this Elessar became King?

It never said anything about Faramir being the ruler of an ancient realm, she thought, just that he was the son of one. Which would make sense, I suppose.

Keren knew that Palen despaired at her infatuation, always trying to convince her to do as she had done and wed a man within their station, one with whom she would be comfortable.

But Keren had known for a long time that Faramir would one day be hers, and that their love for each other would be a force to be reckoned with.

It was the crystal that had told her.

Her mother would never say where she had got it from, and spoke very little of it while she was alive. When she died she gave it to Keren. Palen and her father did not even know of its existence.

All her mother had told her was that it was given to her by a great friend, one who lived far away. Keren had no memories of such a person.

Her mother had said that if at any time she felt as if she did not know where life was taking her, she was to hold the crystal tightly in her palm and ask for guidance, then she was to hold it up to her heart and she would know the direction to take.

It had all sounded very silly to Keren, and she had wondered if her mother's mind had started wandering as she drew closer to death.

But then, when just one week later her mother died, Keren had sat alone in her room – she had not had to share with Palen in those days – and felt completely lost. She was only eleven years old, her mother was not supposed to have left her yet. She was not old enough to work for a living, nor was she ready for a marriage so that a husband could support her. She did not want to burden her father when he had his own grief to live through.

Without thinking she had reached for the crystal. It was a very pale white, almost clear, and had no imperfections that she could see. It was very smooth. She had pulled her legs into her chest, hugging herself tightly, and clenched the crystal in her hand.

What do I do now? What will become of me now? I want my mother, I want my mother! she had said aloud, desperately.

Tears streaming down her face she then clutched the crystal to her chest, feeling her heart beating hard against her clenched fist.

To her amazement she heard a voice, but she could not say she heard it with her ears, rather it came from inside her. She would never be able to describe the voice – it was not male or female, it was not loud or soft, it was not high or low. It simply was, and it felt a part of her.

Do not be troubled, little one, it had said. You are young, and you have much to accomplish. Grieve for your mother, yes, for hers is a kind soul that will be missed, but do not let her death rule your life. You are destined for great joy, for happy times after your fair share of sadness. One will be brought to you who will change everything. His love for you will be so great that you will not be able to comprehend it. Your love for him will overcome all. He is of noble blood, with a kind and brave soul. All who know him learn to love him. He is the son of one who sits in a great hall, the ruler of an ancient realm. You will know him to be your love when you see him stood under the white tree. He will know you to be his when you don the green of the forest. Go to the healers and they will put you on the path to him. His soul is waiting for yours. Go to the healers!

When the voice stopped, it's final command resonating loudly, she removed her hand from her heart and gazed at the crystal in her palm. It was a light pink. She was sure it had been white before. Dazed, she placed it under her pillow and slept.

She had dreamt of grey eyes, which now, nine years later, she had seen in truth when Faramir gazed upon her at his bedside.

Keren still remembered every word of the passage that she had secretly come to call her 'prophecy', which she knew was a far grander word than should ever be associated with her.

She also remembered the disbelief and joy she had felt when, the day after her dream, she had arisen and gone to the Houses of Healing begging for a position there. The warden had refused initially, saying she was too young, but Palen, suddenly pushed into a maternal position, had taken responsibility for her. At sixteen Palen was more than ready for employment, and offered her services to the healers, on the condition that they also took Keren. She explained that their mother had just died, that they both had some skill in healing after caring for her on her sick bed for over six months, and that their father would struggle to support them both. The warden took pity on the two girls and gave them the opportunity to prove that Palen spoke true.

Palen had not known why Keren was so desperate to become a healer, and to this day she had never asked, but she had been pleased that her little sister would be occupied after their mother's death. It gave herself something to focus on too.

So the two sisters had moved into the Houses of Healing and began their new lives there. Now, at twenty and twenty-five, their healing skills were well practised and well respected.

Keren remembered fondly exactly how joining the healers had led her, as promised, to Faramir, when she was still a child. After a few months of basic work, the warden had taken her and Palen up to the seventh level of the city.

"When it comes to the steward and other nobles, quite often we will go to them rather than them come to the Houses, so it is important to know your way around the citadel," he had said. "For your first couple of years you will not be permitted up here without myself or Ioreth accompanying you. When you have proved your worth as healers then we shall see."

He had introduced them to Beregond, who had taken great delight in pointing out the White Tower of Ecthelion, the Merethrond, and the sad old House of the King, never used. He brought them to the Place of the Fountain and explained the history of the white tree which stood there, now sadly dead and bare.

Keren had liked Beregond on sight. His easy rapport with the warden, and his patience with her and Palen as they had asked many childish questions, was endearing to her who had just lost a parent.

As they were standing on the steps of the Merethrond, and Beregond was describing the interior of the White Tower to them, there came the sound of clashing swords and shouts from beside the fountain. They turned and saw two men engaged in a fight. Keren gasped, but Beregond explained what was happening.

"Have no fear girls," he chuckled. "They are only sparring. They have need to practise, for no doubt their father will send them off to fight again soon."

"Why would their father want them to fight?" she had asked.

"Because they have a very important job to do," he said. "They are the two sons of the steward. The elder, with the beard, is Lord Boromir – he is a great warrior. The younger is the Lord Faramir. He has a gentler soul than his brother, but he is still brave and strong. He is also clever and kind. I fear his father does not see that side to him however."

"You speak as if you know them well," said Palen.

"Well enough," Beregond replied. "Both inspire me, but I admit it is Faramir that I am fondest of. Both are good men, but he has time for all, even us lowly guards."

"He sounds nice," said Keren.

Beregond smiled at the young girl calling the second in line to the stewardship of Gondor 'nice'.

"Both are skilled swordsmen," Beregond pointed out. "It is good to watch them – I often learn from them."

The two brothers practised for some minutes more. The warden allowed the girls to stay and watch, out of the way, with Beregond.

The younger man appeared to concede to the elder, and laughing, shook his head, flopping down on a stone bench next to the White Tree. He was breathing heavily with exertion.

"And that is why you are father's favourite," his clear voice carried over to them.

It was a nice voice, Keren thought, full of humour and patience.

The elder, Boromir, smiled but did not answer, playfully pushing the other with a fist to the shoulder. He walked away, removing his helmet. He passed close by and gave a nod to Beregond, but did not spare a glance to the girls.

The younger man remained sat by the tree.

"Come girls," the warden said. "We should return. You have seen more than enough. I am starting to question the appropriateness of allowing you to witness two grown men fight. Best leave before I scrutinise my judgement further."

He smiled with a twinkle in his eye and bid them follow. They gave a farewell and thanks to Beregond.

Keren had taken a few steps before something made her turn round to look at the young lord again. She stopped in her tracks and stared. He was standing beneath the boughs of the old tree.

You will know him to be your love when you see him stood…

"…under the white tree!" Keren had whispered to herself, the words fresh in her mind.

The White Tree of Gondor. Of course!

She studied the man, unnoticed by him. His body was lithe and he was tall, taller than his older brother. He had removed his helmet. She firstly saw shining dark, almost raven hair, gently curling and blowing in the breeze. Then an aquiline nose and a slightly pointed chin. It was indeed a strong and handsome face, and if she had not been told who he was she would have guessed he was of noble blood. He was older than she had first thought, based on his movements – certainly in his twenties. Standing beneath the white trees' boughs, he placed a hand on its withered trunk. He looked up into its bare branches and closed his eyes, seeming to sigh deeply. He looked sad. Perhaps he was not so happy about losing the fight after all. What was it Beregond had said?

I fear his father does not see that side to him.

Was all that mattered to Lord Denethor strength in arms then? Did Faramir feel second best to his brother? Keren felt sorry for him if so. She and Palen, despite the five-year difference in their ages, had always been treated as equals.

But then, she thought, I suppose we are not the steward's heirs.

"Keren, come on!" Palen's voice cut through her thoughts.

She reluctantly turned away from him, sad that he had not looked her way, but as she walked back down to the Houses of Healing she knew she had found her future in the second son of the Steward of Gondor.

Keren smiled at the memory.

She was just a child then, and she had first looked on Faramir with a child's eyes and mind. She saw him as her saviour, as her future, but gave little thought to how that would come about. She did not then know what love meant between a man and a woman. It was only as she grew to womanhood that she appreciated him as a man. Sometimes her sightings of him could be years apart. When she had seen him next, patrolling through the city streets, an unexpected ripple of lust had gone through her fourteen-year-old veins at the thought that this powerful man would be hers. She had never experienced a feeling like that before, and found she could not stop thinking about him. From then on every time she saw him the feeling grew more intense, and made her impatient for their meeting to take place.

And now it had finally happened.

He had changed little over the years. Faramir at six and thirty was very similar to Faramir at seven and twenty, as she had later learnt his age to be when she had first seen him.

Tall and dark, he could sometimes look very stern, but sometimes a broad grin would light his features and he would laugh merrily. He was slightly broader than he had been that day in the Place of the Fountain, his muscles more developed as he grew stronger with increased fighting, but he would always be slim. He did not look close to his age, she thought, seeming more a man in his mid-twenties still. But that was, according to legend, common amongst the high nobles of Gondor, who had been blessed with long lives, being descended from the men of Númenor.

Keren, of course, had changed greatly. She was now a woman, and dreamt of him as nothing more than her lover.

Now everything had led her to this pass. She had donned the green dress as she had been instructed, and now their paths truly were intertwined. She was to see him again in the morning.

Her hand went to her pocket and felt the crystals' reassuring weight there. She had placed it there that morning before Palen came to find her. Just beforehand she had asked if she was on the right path, so embarrassed was she about running from him.

Have faith, she had been told in that strange voice, the first time she had heard it since discovering it as a child. You have not long to wait now.

Keren smiled, knowing that when the new day dawned she would be spending it with him. Not long to wait indeed.

The elf, finding solace in these, the only gardens in the city, sat unseen in the shadows watching the young human.

Merry, Pippin and Gimli had long since retired, but he felt at peace there, with grass under his feet, and trees around him, so he had decided to stay and watch the moon rise. It was the closest thing he could find to a forest in this city of stone.

He had been sitting alone under a willow tree, leaning against the trunk, one long leg stretched along the ground, the other bent up with his forearm resting on his knee. He had kicked off his boots to feel the grass under his bare feet, and had been thinking of where else he would put gardens in the city, when he heard the light tread of a woman disturb his dreaming.

She walked over to the walls, placed her hands on the old, cold stone, and sighed to herself. He watched as she let down her hair.

Something about her interested him, which surprised him, as he had never shown much interest in humans before, apart from his great friend Aragorn. And then he realised – he was being drawn to her fëa. The way it seemed to waver in his mind, beckoning to him, told him that she was an elf friend. This was hard for him to believe, as how could one so young have done anything renowned for his people to recognise her as such? Such an honour was only given to ones who show great bravery, or generosity towards the elven folk. Surely there was some mistake?

Stranger still, there was also a faint warmth to her fëa that indicated she was close to crystals, but how close he could not tell.

She was very young, even for a human, so her experience of them would naturally be limited. She looked ordinary, not the kind to go searching for power and guidance from crystals.

She was not unlike a hobbit in form he decided, although he had never seen a female one. On the smaller side of what was average height for a human female – he imagined she would only come up to his chest – and light on her feet like a dancer with an expressive face and big brown eyes. Her hair when it fell down from beneath her hood was dark and untidy, just reaching down to her breasts.

The strange changing light from the moon and from Mordor gave her an eerie appearance, one moment a dark beauty shrouded in flame, but the next, when she turned her head to face the rising moon, a human girl once more, with all the frailties of human weakness written on her face.

It appeared she had noticed this herself, as she gave a wry smile and, he could just hear from where he sat, a small huff of amusement.

He smiled at being able to read her emotions so easily. She would not be good at telling falsehoods.

He wanted to ask her how one so ordinary had come to befriend the elves and, through that meeting he imagined, discovered crystals, but he decided that she would perhaps rather be left alone with her thoughts at this time of darkness.

Looking out over the land of shadow, there were more important things on his own mind.

Earlier, when he had stood where the girl was standing now, he had seen the gulls, swooping and calling, low over the Anduin. He had been reminded of the Lady Galadriel's words, delivered to him by Gandalf, and of hearing the fated cry of the gulls at Pelargir. Gimli and Merry had chided him for wanting to sail away from these shores, but now he knew more than ever that that was his fate. The Valar had reminded him, not too gently, that he was being called home. It was not necessarily going to happen soon, but one day he knew the trees would not fill his heart with joy any longer, and the call of the sea would be too strong. What would there be left for him on Middle Earth? All his kin were leaving, his friends would be dead, the world would be changed.

A low rumbling began in the black land, taking him from one set of morbid thoughts to another. He watched the girl cling onto the shaking wall of the city as a storm gathered over the mountains.

Keren felt like crying out in terror, but she mastered herself, feeling the shaking grow less and less as the rumbling ceased. Looking out over to Mordor and feeling the evil that emanated from there, she was reminded that they could all be dead, or enslaved, or driven mad with fear very soon, and it would not matter whether Elessar, this new king of Gondor, had the crown or not. There would be no crown. There would be no Gondor.

Word had passed around the Houses of Healing that Mithrandir was placing all his hopes in a hobbit to bring down the dark lord. She did not know much, but she had heard whisperings that Isildur's bane had been found and was now the hobbit's weapon.

Peregrin, the hobbit she had seen, was so tiny that she could not imagine him defeating a child, let alone Sauron. But then the other one had taken on the witch king. Perhaps hobbits were brave but a little stupid. What the wizard was thinking putting the fate of Middle Earth in the hands of such a strange little creature she knew not, but then again she did not have much experience of wizards either.

She turned away from the doom filled sky and tried to focus her mind on her desire to sleep. She already felt better after having some food, but emotionally she was near spent. She felt tears pricking at her eyes just from being tired.

Such weakness! she chided herself. What is happening to you?

Grief and tiredness suddenly hit her like she was a tree being felled. She knew it was foolish to cry, but after the past few days she could not help herself. She was close to being overwhelmed with all that had happened. One minute of weakness she would permit herself, she decided, and she allowed the tears to fall – tears for the brave men who had died, tears for the uncertainty she had felt about Faramir's survival, tears for her long dead mother.

She sank onto a stone bench facing into the shadowy gardens, her back to the flames, and, with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, she wept. She cried for the unknown, she cried for the future of Middle Earth, and all that could be lost if this hobbit should fail. She let out all her emotions about Faramir – having thought he was dead, then knowing he was spared but unsure as to how long for. And then, against all hope, him reviving and asking for her. Tears of relief, then tears of fear for their future, fell.

Legolas rarely felt grief. He was, after all, a warrior and used to witnessing death. He had mourned the loss of his mother, but that was over a thousand years ago. Others' grief he found hard to understand.

This girl, dressed in the garb of a healer, must surely have seen death before. She carried it with her, he could feel it in and around her. Sorrow was a part of her being.

She had great inner strength – he could see what it had cost her to succumb to her tears. Was she, perhaps, lonely? Did she have no one to turn to, to dry her tears, or to comfort her? He felt uncomfortable witnessing such grief. Should he say something, do something? Or leave? He had the ability to disappear quickly and quietly and she would be none the wiser. But part of him did not want to leave her so obviously distressed as she was.

He slowly stood until he was half obscured by the drooping branches of the willow, uncertain how to proceed.

Keren felt a lot better, having expelled all her emotion in one burst of tears. She heaved a shuddering sigh and mentally gathered herself together. She wiped the tears from her face and rose to leave, more than ready for sleep now.

As she turned a glint of silver caught her eye. The moon, now high in the sky, was making something shine in the shadows. She blinked and then gave a little start – someone was watching her. A figure stood unmoving and ethereal under a nearby tree, their hair in the moonlight a shade of near white. No Gondorian had hair such a shade. The figure was taller than her, and larger. Keren thought it was a man, but not like any she had seen before. She stood rooted to the ground.

Legolas remained in the shadows. The girl had seen him. Her eyes wide, she looked startled and vulnerable. Now, in order not to frighten her, he would have to speak.

"Please do not be afraid of me, I will not harm you." He spoke gently, so as not to alarm her, and with one arm slightly raised towards her, took a small step forwards out of the shadows.

The figure spoke, and Keren knew by his voice that he was not human. It was soft and melodic, with the smallest hint of an accent foreign to her. She felt rather than saw his steady, gentle gaze on her. Then he stepped forward into the light of the moon and, for the first time in her life, Keren beheld an elf.