A/N: After an inordinate amount of time of inactivity I bring to you…

*drum roll*

The improved…? Revised…edition…?

*nervous laughter*

Long story short, I lost my confidence in the story, gained it back and decided to rejig things from the start with the aim to get to the main point of this thing sooner than I had in the previous version, because knowing me…that story could have gotten very long, boring, repetitive…or all three!

A huge thank you to my amazingly supportive (and anonymous) friend who has listened to me babble ideas and re-read this God knows how many time. You are my motivational and steadfast rock! Thank you!

And a big thank you to you amazing readers who have stuck around and hopefully found this! Your continual support is worth its weight in gold to me, so thank you!

Now, enough excuses from me and enjoy this Prologue thing that was a very last minute decision!

T.W.E x

Note: This is an AU story of both this world and Tolkien's wonderful, amazing (insert preferred adjective here) works, so there may be a few deviations from canon.

I am no expert in Tolkien's lore and do not own his characters or creations, however the three OC's and their antics are my own. I surely needn't say this but please be respectful.

WARNINGS: Graphic violence, bad language (and others I will add at the beginning of each chapter, but expect these two.)

The morning was balmy, birds chattered and the ever rushing Bruinen burbled in the background. The hidden city of Rivendell was unlike anything to be found elsewhere in the world. Architecture only achieved by elven hands, a seamless blend of nature and comfort. In the courtyards and high garden the trees had begun to turn from green to gold and burnt orange, and the sunlight gleamed off the white stone houses and grey slate roofs.

Frodo was feeling a little more perky than he had the night before. The ache in his shoulder better, but not gone. He feared he might never forget the pain of the morgul blade, but he knew the physical pain would dull and vanish overtime.

That night on Weathertop, the desperate flight through the Trollshaws with Lord Glorfindel who had shone like a star made flesh, and his escape from the Nazgûl over the Ford sat too close in his mind for comfort. He would lie awake at night and force his eyes shut until sleep took him.

His ordeal aside, Frodo was thankful to have made it to the elven city and marvelled at its beauty and exquisite craftsmanship. And none better to admire it with than his beloved Uncle.

Bilbo's age had caught up with him on his journey from the Shire, and he lamented the adventure he could no longer go on by himself—for he seemed to think he would still go. To wander the paths of Mirkwood and see the Lonely Mountain.

Wonders he had once seen and recounted in his red book, 'There and back again'. Frodo had spent long hours fingering through the pages, staring at the sketches and maps, and feeling a keen sense of sorrow for his Uncle.

Bilbo's greying hair had turned white, the lines of his face more prominent, showing his eleventy one years. Most notable was the chest high cane he took with him wherever he went now. The sleek wood tapping on the stone floor as they meandered down a sunlit corridor, listening to Bilbo recount interesting facts and tales.

The Hobbit's entered a large vaulted room that overlooked the Valley of Imladris, and Bilbo tottered across the floor to a low table on which, he explained, stood a relic from the last Great War fought on Middle-Earth.

"Aeglos. Spear of Gil-Galad, the last High-King of the elves. And the writing here reads," Bilbo followed the elven script on the blade with his finger, "Gil-Galad ech vae vaegannen matha, Aith heleg nín i orch gostatha, Nin cíniel na nguruthos, Hon ess nín istatha: Aeglos"

Aeglos lay on the midnight blue banner embroidered with the twelve golden stars of Gil-Galad. Its mighty shaft was cracked, almost cleft in twain, but the impressive long curved blade—inlaid with brass and gold filigree—still gleamed. Kept sharp and polished by Elrond himself, if Bilbo was to be believed.

"It's incredible." Frodo breathed, eyeing the legendary lance which came to twice his height at least, if not more.

"Yes…But long ago he rode away, and where he dwelleth none can say; For into darkness fell his star, in Mordor where the shadows are." Bilbo recited with sad reverence, mimicking those who had sung it to him, and unto Frodo he passed on the perception of a leader much beloved by his people, and whose sacrifice was felt still by those long lived enough to have known him.

The cool breeze brought with it the scent of pine and snow capped mountains, and a few leaves blew in through an open door on the balcony.

Frodo watched as a crisp, reddish gold leaf scraped the off-white stone before coming to rest by the entrance.

"Who is she?" Frodo nodded his dark head of curls towards the bust that sat atop a slim pillar, tucked away in a shallow alcove beside the arched entrance.

"Who?" Bilbo asked, startled, and followed Frodo's line of sight.

"Ah yes, that is one of the many statues you'll find hidden throughout Rivendell." He answered, waving his hand in a grand gesture. "Exquisite is she not? And sadly I cannot say I know who she is."

Frodo approached the bust, so delicately carven only the brilliant white stone betrayed its inanimate nature.

"She's human." Frodo commented, tracing a finger over the rounded shell of her ear, then across the high cheekbone and down the dip of her carven face to her chin. Soft eyes gazed emptily out at the world, long hair unbound.

Below the bust on a carven plaque, were two ornate axes crossed one over the other, and just below that was the word;

Dagyrch

"It means 'Slayer of Orcs'." A deep voice spoke from the doorway so suddenly Frodo could have jumped clean out of his skin. The elf gave him an apologetic look as he stepped inside. He was tall and straight with brilliant golden hair and dark eyes.

"Ah, Frodo, meet Ecthalion." Bilbo introduced them cheerfully, extending a welcoming hand to Ecthalion before looking to Frodo again. "It slips my mind whether he is a Lord or not."

The elf chuckled musically, and his dark eyes sparkled with delight at Frodo's greeting in Quenya.

"Do you know who she is?" Frodo asked, indicating the striking face immortalised in stone.

Ecthalion's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, which lingered on the warrioress with subtle tenderness.

"I do." Within his voice were the unnumbered years of his age, and the joys and trials endured therein. "Tis a legacy lost to time and memory."

Frodo couldn't help but ponder, why a warriors statue who had been forgotten, stood in that particular room. And so he asked; "Why?"

"Some tales are remembered, and some are left untold."