A/N: Thank you so much to anyone who takes the time to read this! I'm incredibly grateful, and hope you enjoy!

An Enemy Revealed

The king's tent was louder than the rowdiest of nights at the Prancing Pony Inn at Bree. Panic reigned supreme among the allies of the West. A great table had been set up in the centre, but no one sat around it, all on their feet and talking over one another, demanding action, arguing over strategy, despairing and lamenting the turn of events. Aragon sat numb in his chair watching the proceedings as if from far away. He took no part in the discussion, nor tried to bring calm. He could barely trust himself to speak.

Only one other was as silent as he. Éowyn sat near him staring into the tent wall before her, looking as pale and cold as she had when first he had beheld her at Edoras. She had not wept, but perhaps her heart was too grieved for that. He knew his own was. Her husband was among the most vocal of the group, now engaged in argument with Imrahil about what action they should now take. Angry he looked, but his voice was tinged with fear and despair.

The image of Eldarion's face was burned into his mind. The way he had beheld him before he had been taken, so full of fear, so unlike the man he had been only a short while ago. Why had he not done something about it? Eldarion had been troubled of late, he had seen it but done nothing, hoping things would work themselves out. He had failed him as a father. How could he have been so blind?

That this secret of theirs was linked to their disappearance, he had no doubt. He should have been there for him. How could he have led his son to believe that he could not confide in him? Make him afraid to tell him what was wrong? Was he so unapproachable? I can't, he'd said. Don't make me. Had he been too distant with him? He would be better in future. If he ever returned.

Aragorn sat up straighter, feeling returning in full force to his body. He will return. I will make sure of it.

"Enough of this," he said. His voice was quiet, but the room went silent immediately. They turned to look at him, and the look they gave him pained him. They trusted him to get them through this. To know what to do. But he knew nothing. He had never trusted his own decisions less than he did now. More than ever he wished Gandalf were here. His guidance was what he needed.

But Gandalf was not here, so he had to make do with his own wisdom. Three young lives and the fate of the West depended on it.

"If we wish to save our children, we must be calm and rational," Aragorn said, looking particularly at Legolas, Éowyn and Faramir. "Our panicking will not serve them. I know it is difficult, but they need us to be strong for their sakes."

The other parents nodded, their faces pale but determined. Aragorn turned to look to the others and began to speak, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"We will go after these Orcs," he said, "and we will get them back. They cannot be tracked but we know where they must have gone."

"Minas Morgul," Faramir said, swallowing. "Would that I had destroyed that foul place when I had the chance."

"Our army will attack as planned," Aragorn said. "We are ready for siege, but it will not be easy. We cannot linger in that place too long. And our enemies may decide to use their captives as insurance against us. The attempt shall be made in any case. We will not leave them there to rot."

"Aye, we will all be with you," Gimli said, gripping his axe. "It's time that foul place is wiped from the earth."

"It is not only their death by execution during siege we must worry about," Elladan said. "The Enemy wants them, and for a purpose more than just a blow to our morale. We must consider this. They are important, or so much time would not have been spent in capturing them. I fear what this is."

"It has to do with this secret they've been keeping," Faramir said, pacing around the tent. "It must be."

"The secret that is connected to Neniel," Legolas said. He gripped his arm tightly. "What could they have to do with her? They've never even met."

"Something connects all three," Aragorn agreed. "But what do they all have in common?"

No one spoke for a moment.

"They are all children of those who fought against Sauron?" Merry suggested. "Or against the Nazgûl, who used to live in the Morgul Vale. You all fought them at one point."

"Queen Arwen did not, neither did Neniel's mother. And many others besides have been born to soldiers of those wars. Your own children among them."

"They're all young," was Éomer's suggestion.

"So are hundreds of others."

"They're all of noble blood?"

"Again, it hardly marks them out. Why did they not come after Prince Imrahil's children? Lothíriel or her brothers, or any of the older nobles across Gondor and Rohan?"

"What about a bond of fellowship?" Pippin asked. "Eldarion and Elboron are close (or used to be at least before they started knocking lumps out of each other), and you and Legolas are close. The families are interconnected. They're all linked to the Fellowship of the Ring; son, daughter and nephew of its members."

"But what of your own children?" Aragorn asked him. "Sam's, Merry's? They have not been touched. Elanor is safe in Minas Tirith and as far as I am aware no Orcs have been seen near the Shire."

"Elvish blood?" asked Elrohir. "Elboron may not have an Elf for a parent, but he is of the Men of Númenor who have long been connected to our own race, and there is rumour his grandmother's family in Dol Amroth are of Elven descent"

"Common descent perhaps then," said Legolas. "Eldarion is descended from the Elves of Doriath, as is Neniel. Perhaps Elboron too is a descendent though his Númenorean forebears."

"But this is all conjecture," Captain Bergil said. "Can such distant kinship really be a factor?"

"We cannot rule anything out," Aragorn said heavily, fingers pressed together beneath his chin. "We must consider everything."

"They're all heirs." Éowyn had spoken for the first time. She stood up slowly. "All of them are heirs to kingdoms."

"Heirs?" Gimli said. "They're all royal, you mean?"

"Eldarion is heir to Gondor and Arnor," Aragorn said, piecing it together in his mind. "Heir to the Reunited Kingdom.

"And Neniel is heir both to the crown of Mirkwood and to the realm of Rhûn," Legolas said.

"The Sea of Rhûn?" Éomer looked confused. "I had not heard that there was an Elven kingdom there."

At this, Legolas and the recently freed Arveldir exchanged glances. "The kingdom is a secretive one," Legolas explained. "They rarely play host to any outsiders. There was an ancient grievance between the Water Elves of Rhûn and the other realms and they retreated entirely from the world. Only within the few decades did relations begin to ease when I married the daughter of their king, Nenwë, and Neniel was born."

"Even still our relations are strained," Arveldir said. "They do not engage readily with us in dialogue, especially since the death of Princess Nenwen in a spider-attack. Princess Neniel has been the liaison between the two kingdoms."

Aragorn caught the flash of pain in Legolas' eyes when his wife was mentioned. He knew all of this, having been informed of it all at the time by Legolas himself when he sought comfort in his grief. He had never met any of the Water Elves, and until Legolas had informed him otherwise had believed them to be a mythic folk belonging only to the old tales he had heard as a youth in the House of Elrond. To lose both wife and daughter …

"But this does not hold true with regards to Elboron," Faramir said, shaking his head. "Prince I am in title, but my domain is only a province granted to me by another. It is a lordship only. I am no king."

"But I am," Éomer said. He looked towards his sister and sighed heavily as he understood what she had been referring to. "I have no children of my own yet. As it stands, Elboron is my only heir."

"Oh!" Gimli suddenly exclaimed, causing everyone to jump in the air. "Prince Bain!"

"Who?"

"He is the son of King Bard II in Dale," Gimli said, now practically hopping from foot to foot. "I never thought of him before now. All those attacks on Dale were focused around the Great House … they were trying to reach him!"

"But Prince Bain is only eight years old," Arveldir said. "He is no warrior or diplomat like the others, and Dale is a small and relatively insignificant kingdom. Why would they want him?"

Aragorn's mind was racing. It all appeared to fit.

"Heirs to Gondor, Arnor, Mirkwood, Rhûn, Rohan and Dale," he listed. "Noble is their lineage, but what use could that be to the enemy? Legolas too is heir to a throne, why is he not targeted? Why not the heirs to the lordships of Dol Amroth, Lossarnach or the others who are also of royal blood? Why only these four royals?"

"We must bring them back," Éomer said, "before the Enemy can make use of whatever it wants with them."

"Something binds them in a way I do not understand," Faramir said. "Something that has affected their behaviour. Both our sons were affected by the presence of the Orcs more than the others remember? When we retuned this evening, Eldarion seemed to know that Elboron had almost been taken. And this fight between them … never could I have imagined them to behave in such a way."

"Nor I," Aragorn agreed, remembering the foreign look on Eldarion's face when he had turned his fists on his dearest friend. "It was as if we did not know them." A new thought struck him. "Remember in our Council in Minas Tirith? When Gimli brought the news about Dale, Elboron tried to speak to me, but Eldarion prevented him."

"You think he knew something?"

"Perhaps, but what?" asked Faramir. He frowned. "Another thing I observed that day. Eldarion had been hurt in the ankle the previous evening, and when Elboron woke up that morning, he too had pain there, though he had no injury."

"That first day fighting the Orcs," said Bergil, "Eldarion collapsed with pain in his side, and Lord Elboron also felt it. Neither of them had been harmed."

"When was this?" Arveldir asked sharply.

Bergil paused while he counted up the days and then told him. Arveldir's eyes were filled with wonder.

"That was the day we were captured by the Orcs," he said. "The leader of the host stabbed Neniel in the side with a poisoned dart in the exact place you showed me."

"Poison," Aragorn said breathing out as his heart began to race. "That was what his malady appeared to me at the time, but without evidence of a wound I dismissed it. It was her wound he was sharing."

"And the fight in Ithilien," Éowyn said, her voice growing agitated. "Elboron was injured on the arm, but Eldarion also was affected. They were both made unconscious despite the wound not being serious."

"Be gone, echoing voice, be gone," Aragorn recited, a growing horror in his chest. "That is what he said."

"What are you saying, Aragorn?" Éomer asked, voice hard. "They're sharing their thoughts? Their injuries?"

"I have never heard of such a thing," Elrohir said, "not from any of my kin, and they are counted amongst the wisest in Arda."

"I have no explanations," Aragorn said. "And I think torturing ourselves with these thoughts will not do us any good. We must focus our attention on rescuing them from Minas Morgul before any harm can befall them. All else can wait until they are safely back with us. And we will get them back."

All those gathered there seem to take heart at his words, a new determined fervour was shining in their faces. Aragorn held his resolve as he looked upon them. This was no time for him to be engaged in self-doubt, tormenting himself with what-ifs. His friends were depending on him to be strong, be the king he was born to be. The lives of Eldarion, Elboron and Neniel were resting with him, perhaps even this boy in Dale he had never set eyes upon was counting on him.

He would not fail them.

Eldarion looked upon the city before him with a dim horror. Tales he had heard of this place could not have prepared him for the reality. He remembered the words of Sam at the Council: "The very stones themselves are full of foul, rotten death and decay. The air is as unwholesome as you can imagine and there's nowt there but darkness and shadow". He had spoken truly, but not enough to convey what it really was. The Morgul Vale was everything he had heard and worse.

He was not permitted much time to observe before he felt a blow across the back of his head. The Orc behind him grunted at him to continue on, and he did so, every step taking him deeper into darkness. Elboron was at his side, hands bound as his were, stumbling on with weariness. The Orcs, through whatever foul magic it was they possessed had transported them to the beginning of the valley just as the sun was rising. Once they had entered, the shadow had crossed over the sun and the Orcs walked freely, pushing their prisoners on unrelentingly until now they were in full view of the city. Already he could feel the cold evil of that place entering into his very bones. He could see Elboron's face, sallow in the dull light, a shadow in his eyes, and knew he must look the same. He tried to reach out to him, to whisper words of encouragement, though he hardly knew what he could say.

A sharp pain crossed his back and he cried out as he felt the sting of a whip. The Orc who had dealt the blow came into view and snarled at him, gesturing for him to look ahead, moving him away from his friend. The Orcs had said nothing to them, beat them if they tried to speak to them or each other. He had expected them to gloat over them, bait them with cruel insults, but they had remained silent, appearing as dumb as animals. Yet he knew they could speak.

He looked down at the ground before him as the Orcs drove him relentlessly onwards. He closed his eyes and tried to relax his mind, desperately trying to access that link that existed between himself and Elboron, to place words in his mind. But he knew it to be fruitless. The few times they had succeeded in such an aim they had both been rested, relaxed and calm and in a state of deep meditation, not surrounded by Orcs on a path to a place of darkness in fear for their lives.

All too soon, they were before the gates to the city, high and thick they were, lit by a cold gleam that spoke of corpses. For a moment they stood there, and Eldarion began to wildly hope that the gates would not open and they would simply turn around and leave. But then the great gates began to move, swinging inward, curiously silent on their hinges with no one in sight seeming to have operated them. The Orc behind gave him a sharp kick in the back and he once again found his feet and entered the City of the Dead.

He was in a large courtyard ringed by tall battlements with many small windows, black slits like the eyes of a beast looking down upon it. Shackles lined the walls of the courtyard and Eldarion was reminded of Arveldir's tale of being confined here. The place was a cold as the grave, a pale green light the only sickly illumination. He looked around, searching for some similarity to his own home; after all, had not this city once been of Gondor, twin to Minas Tirith? Any such resemblances there might once have been were washed away now however, replaced with a lingering menace which seem to live in the earth itself.

The Orcs barked orders to each other in a foul tongue he did not recognise, it was not the Black Speech he had once studied, and he and Elboron were placed side by side and thrust to their knees. Two Orcs stood behind them, each with a long knife at their throats, the others gathering around in a semi-circle. His heart raced as he felt the cool blade against his skin. Surely they had not been sought out so carefully and then dragged all this way to be executed upon arrival?

The Orcs' attention however did not seem to be upon them. All were staring straight ahead at a black door in the wall in front of them still as statues. Eldarion turned his attention there also, a cold dread in the pit of his stomach. He could feel Elboron trembling at his side. He knew he did not want that door opened.

Gradually, a horrific stench came upon him, causing him to choke with the intensity of it. Like that smell of the Orcs he had too easily become accustomed to, it spoke of death and decay, as a pile of a thousand corpses rotting at once. His entire body was filled with revulsion.

The door was open, and from within the darkness came a figure wreathed in shadow, the source of the stench. Eldarion found himself at first too overcome by horror to look upon it, but as it drew nearer, he felt his courage grow. He heard his father's voice in his head: Courage comes only to those who need it the most. Listen to it, trust it, and it will not fail you.

Eldarion raised his eyes to the thing that stood before him, quelling the fear in his heart. He was the son of Aragorn, King Elessar, a child of the Eldar and of Númenor. He would not be afraid. He had allowed himself too much fear already of late. Despite this new resolve however, he was hard pressed to keep to it when he beheld what stood before him.

The creature was tall and may once have been a strong and striking figure, but now looked wasted and corrupt. Its flesh shone with a cold light as the Orcs' did, and it appeared as if were rotting before his eyes. It was clad in armour that might have been fair when first wrought, of fine craftsmanship and quality, now rusted and broken. But it was the face which drew the most hate, the most repugnance. Its eyes were as an abyss, black and bottomless, a loathsome gleam therein that made his heart recoil. Angular features and long shining dark hair might have made it handsome, if handsome this creature had ever been. The ears, peeping out from those dark tresses were pointed. With a sense of nausea, Eldarion met this creature's eyes. Like the Orcs behind him, this creature was not alive, but a living corpse composed of shadow. But it was not a Shadow Orc.

It was a Shadow Elf.

The Elf surveyed the two young men before him, head tilted on one side, a growing smile on its lips. It was the smile of one who took pleasure in only the cruel and hateful.

"And what is it that you have brought me?" the Elf spoke as if to himself, voice deep and filled with malice. Eldarion stared at him in wonder. The language was indeed Sindarin, but not the Elvish he had ever spoken with his parents. A curious accent tinged those words with unfamiliarity, the pronunciations distorted and warped. Memory came back to him then of hours at his studies in the library of Minas Tirth, Elboron by his side as their tutor lectured them on the days of ages gone past. This dialect seemed to fit with those stories, almost as if the Elf had walked straight off the page to threaten them with the words it contained.

The Orc behind him chuckled, and then to his surprise answered in the same tongue, its voice sounding harsh on the fair words.

"You see before you the heirs of Gondor, Arnor and Rohan, my lord," it said, a guttural laugh in its throat. "Caught like rats in a trap."

The Elf's eyes seemed to flash in triumph.

Eldarion subconsciously inched closer to Elboron, who had now gone very still at his side. The Elf regarded them silently a few moments until Eldarion could bear it no more.

"Well? What do you want with us?" he demanded more bravely than he felt. "Answer me, you foul creature."

The Elf sneered and then laughed fully, the sound echoing around the dark courtyard. "You are in no position to make demands, young prince," he said. "You are here to be of use to me, that is all."

The Elf stepped closer to him to examine his face, and Eldarion struggled not to choke at the stench.

"Yes," the Elf murmured. "I see it now. The resemblance is faint, but the blood is strong. Good, that will serve our purpose well."

"What resemblance?" Eldarion asked, unnerved by the insinuation. What had this Elf to do with him?

"Why to your forebears of course," the Elf said. "The line of your mother and father both stretch back to the Elves of Beleriand. And of those I have more than a passing acquaintance. Of Lúthien and Beren in particular. Part of her is in your face, courtesy of your mother no doubt. The mortal part of you does not fully drown it out."

Eldarion's mind reeled. This Elf was of the First Age, and none who had lived in that time was now present in Middle-Earth, save the Ents of Fangorn and a bare handful of Elves in Mirkwood. The Elf before him was ancient indeed. That at least explained the antiquated Sindarin.

The Elf had now passed his attention to Elboron, who stiffened, but met the eyes of the Elf with a coolness that belied the terror Eldarion knew him to be experiencing through their mind link which was now beginning to stretch open. The Elf gave him similar examination.

"Of you there is a far lesser degree of nobility," he said, lingering by him. "Royal blood is within you, but distant on the side of your father, and of a lesser pedigree through your mother. What is Rohan but a young kingdom of inferior Men? Still, royal it is, and so every drop is precious."

Elboron's brow creased in a frown. He was thinking rapidly, his mind working out what Eldarion's was too slow to comprehend.

"Have you returned from the Halls of Mandos?" he asked his words carefully chosen and spoken with far greater accuracy than Eldarion's attempt at ancient Sindarin. Then he blinked. "Or did you not go at all?"

The Elf's face darkened, and with a rapidity quicker than Eldarion could follow he had whipped out his hand and struck Elboron hard about the face, sending him crashing into the Orc behind. Eldarion made to go to him, but was pulled back by his own captor, and the knife pressed ever deeper into his flesh. When Elboron had resumed his kneeling position, it was to reveal a mouth filled with blood and a harsh mark on the side of his jaw which would soon surely darken to a bruise. He did not look fazed however and stared back at the Elf as though he had won a victory.

"Do not think that because your blood is precious I will not hesitate to spill it," the Elf spat, black eyes now glittering with malice. "It can be renewed in time. Do not try me, Man. I have faced mightier foes than you, than any of those weaklings in Mandos. You will not find me wanting."

Elboron said nothing to this, and the Elf turned back to Eldarion, now seemingly as calm as before.

"Your blood will be useful," he said, eyes flicking between the two. "My brother will be pleased."

Eldarion's sank even lower. There was another such as he?

"Take them to the dungeon," the Elf said to the two Orcs holding them. "I want preparations made immediately for their transfer."

"I thought we were waiting for the prince brat in Dale, my lord?"

"He will follow," the Elf said shortly. "We have three of the four, and of the four the two with the strongest blood. But now it is time for my brother's plan to be laid in motion. He can make a beginning at last."

The Elf seemed to disregard them then, and the Orcs behind began to drag them off towards another low door in the courtyard wall.

"And what of you?" Eldarion called, one last attempt to try and learn something more. "You know all about us, but who are you that thinks he can kidnap three royals at his whim? Name yourself, coward!"

The Elf stopped and turned to him, a cruel smile slowly spreading across his face. "I am Curufin."

The next moment he and Elboron were bundled through the dark door and driven down a long corridor. A rattling of keys and then they both were thrown inside a small cell, lit only by the same unearthly gleam that seemed to permeate this city. The door was locked behind them.

Eldarion leapt from the ground where the Orcs had thrown him and immediately tested the door for weakness or fault, before conducting the same tests around the small cell, checking every stone, every nook, trying the bars at the narrow window. He noticed painfully that this cell was near identical to the one he had been seeing in his dreams. Was Neniel here with them in the next cell over? He tried to sense her with his mind but came up short. He sent her from his mind with impatience; he had to stay focused if he were to figure out an escape, a plan of action. It was all that could save either of them. He turned his thoughts to the Elf.

"Curufin, Curufin …" he mused aloud, ceasing his examination. "I have heard that name before …"

Elboron turned to him, and even in the dim light Eldarion could see that he rolled his eyes as he had often done during their lessons when Eldarion ill remembered some fact. The sight was almost cheering. "Of course you have, you fool. Do you not know your history? Your own family history?"

"Family?" Eldarion frowned. "He is not my family, is he?"

"Distantly, yes. He is cousin to your great-grandmother, Galadriel."

Eldarion stared. "What? I am related to that … that thing?"

Elboron paused. "I am not certain," he said, biting his lip. "That is … there was a Curufin who lived in the First Age. But he died in the sacking of Doriath."

Words and phrases came back to him then, and Eldarion remember snatches of songs once sung to him by his mother with a sad, mournful voice. Tales of the First Age, which before now had never held his interest. Tales of Elves had always seemed so irrelevant when so many had passed over the Sea; they were hardly about to help him become a great king, greater than his father, or perform many great acts of valour. It was his more recent forebears of the Third Age he had to outdo. Elboron on the other hand was a lover of all tales and songs and consumed them greedily whenever he could, later retelling them and singing them back to Eldarion with much gusto, though only when he was sure no one else would hear him. It was no surprise he had made a connection Eldarion had not.

"You mean the Curufin who was one of the sons of Fëanor?" he asked, straining his memory. "The Kinslayers?"

"Exactly."

Eldarion resumed his pacing of the cell, cold dread writhing inside of him like snakes. "He's dead," he said. "My ancestor killed him and died in the task. All the sons of Fëanor were killed or driven mad thousands of years ago. How can he be here?"

"I don't know," Elboron said, sliding down against the wall until he came to rest on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. "He's dead … but then again, the Elf who stood before us did not appear alive. That is why I questioned him about Mandos."

Eldarion came to sit by his side. "You think he has returned from the dead?" he asked incredulously.

"I've suspected something similar about these Orcs for a while," Elboron said. "They are not alive, they cannot be. There are too many of them, and I could swear that some of the Orcs I slay are back again to fight in the next battle. They are made of shadows, these Orcs, and resemble the Orcs from that age. Orcs and other foul creatures do not go to the Halls of Mandos after death, but stay in shadows. Something has called them forth."

"Curufin?"

"Perhaps. If he never went to Mandos after death he may have lingered in Middle Earth as a spirit, roaming its lands as a spectre, like the Barrow-Wights of the north kingdom. Now that spirit has a form, abhorrent and corrupt."

Eldarion pondered all of this. He felt rather sick. To return from the dead … only two had ever accomplished it: his own forebears, Beren and Lúthien, and then only with the blessing of Mandos. How could this Elf be alive? But then, was he alive? He had no proper body to be sure. He was little more than a living corpse.

"Royal blood," he said quietly. "Why on earth does he want royal blood?"

"I have no idea," Elboron said. "But things now finally make sense. Neniel's kidnapping, the visions I've had of Dale … the prince there must be the person whose mind I have seen … as well as our own kidnapping. I had not made such a link before. I do not think of myself as royal."

"Well, unless your uncle Éomer gets a move on and finally fathers a child, you will be King of Rohan someday," Eldarion said, and he saw Elboron's eyes go wide. He almost laughed; his friend had only ever wished for a quiet life of little renown and being King was something he would be sure to detest.

"Can it be they want our kingdoms?"

"For what purpose?"

"To control?" Eldarion thought hard. "Did Curufin not once try to take control of the Kingdom of Nargothrond?"

"Yes, with his brother Celegorm."

"Is he then the brother he referred to?"

"I hope not." Elboron shuddered. "The two of them committed many foul deeds together. But then any of Curufin's brothers would be bad news for us; none of them were particularly good."

"There can indeed be no good reason for why they would want our blood."

"I still cannot figure out what this link has to do with anything." Elboron said. "Is it this link that they want? Or did the link arise independently? Four royals … linked by their minds. But what could two Elves from the First Age want with that?"

Eldarion had no answer. They sat in silence a while, listening to the trickle of some foul water somewhere, feeling the cold from the stones behind them chill their insides. A melliferous evil seemed to hang in the air, filing their lungs and sending despair through their bodies.

"Come on," Eldarion said, feeling the foulness of Morgul settle around him and wishing to distract himself. He turned to face Elboron and reached for his hands, both still bound tightly. "Let us try to use that link now as we did in Minas Tirith. If Neniel is here and close by, we need to know. I am determined to escape from here, and we need to know where she is."

Elboron raised an eyebrow as his hands met the prince's. "Your optimism knows no bounds."

"If two Halflings can enter Morgul, pass the Hidden Stairs and then escape the Tower of Cirith Ungol all while under the gaze of Sauron, we can get out of here," Eldarion said forcefully. "Now come."

He closed his eyes, and the two of them sat together long, cross legged on the floor, relaxing their minds, trying to access those threads of consciousness that had been filtering through their dreams and waking thoughts the last two months. But they were weaker than ever, and Eldarion began to despair. The strong lifeforce that had been his constant companion was fading, no laughter now sounded along their combined thoughts.

"Do you sense her?"

"Yes," Eldarion smiled. "She is here, and not far. She still fights the shadow."

"I can feel her too. She grows weak."

"All the more reason to escape quickly then," Eldarion said, opening his eyes. "None of us will long survive here."

Name Translations (OCs):

Nenwen: Water Lady (Quenya)

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you have the time, please feel free to leave a review to tell me what you think! Even a couple of words is fine :)

Also, I'm now on Tumblr as idriltelcontar, so feel free to follow me there if you'd like! I will be posting some moodboards for this fic and some of my others as well as some original content.

Till next time!