~*~* A/N: Here's part two. So far, no one has reveiwed part One - are you guys out there? *grin* Anyway, this part is dedicated to my buddy Lily! :-D ~*~*



Elrond and Aragorn spoke afterwards, the two walking throughout Rivendell.

"This worries me," said Elrond, wisely. "We know not if she can fight-"

"Oh, she can fight," said Aragorn, chuckling a bit, "She is a warrior - of that much I am certain. And she is strong, with the senses of an elf. I pray thee, do not underestimate her."


Loriana sighed, sitting down at last. An elven woman walked into the room, and set down a pile of towels for her.

"Mayst I get you anything?" the woman asked, and Loriana thought a moment.

"There are two things," Loriana responded, looking down, clearly embarrassed.

"What are they?" asked the woman gently. "Master Elrond said to get you anything you desired, within reason, of course."

"I wish to speak with Lady Arwen, and I have need of a dress, for I have nae a gown to wear."

The elf nodded, and left the room. Minutes later, the door opened once again and Lady Arwen stepped in.

"Raelinda said you wanted to speak with me," she said, sitting beside Loriana. "What is it?"

"The elven man I met today, Legolas."

Lady Arwen smiled, already knowing why Loriana was asking of him.

"Yes?"

"Tell me of him. He seems.. Sad. Wounded, like. But on the inside."

"Like you, Loriana, Legolas has faced much sadness, much loss. He is not from Rivendell, else I could tell you more, but he is from Mirkwood. A Prince, he is."

"A Prince? He hardly seems royal at all."

Lady Arwen smiled, sadly. "Things aren't always what they seem, young Loriana, least of all elves."

Raelinda strode back into the room, carrying a dress of yellow and silver.

"You favor him, do you not?" asked Arwen, a playful smile on her lips.

Loriana looked at Arwen, then back down. "It does not matter if I do or not, and there are two reasons why. The first being that he most certainly would not favor me in return, but the second is far more grave. I am a Blackthorne, and therefore to be alone, besides to bear a child to carry on the name. For all my life. I cannot love, only fight. It is written as so."

Arwen stood, and bowed slightly to Loriana. "I will leave you now, my father wishes you to be dressed and ready for the feast within the hour."


Loriana bathed, washing the dirt and blood from her hair. It became light red when she dried and combed it, and fell to her waist gently, elegantly. She slipped into the dress, sighing as the soft elven fabric eased around her. She looked into the mirror before her.

She could feel the tears spring to her eyes. An image of her mother came into her mind. She was a young girl, 5 or 6 years old, when she lived with her mother. She was the most beautiful woman in all of the world, her father told her with a sigh. Then, she was taken from them.

She saw her mother within herself. The same hair, the same deep eyes. But Loriana had scars, had painful memories and bruises that her mother had not been made to endure.

"Oh mother," she said softly, then closed her eyes. "Father.. What am I to do now? I am not a warrior, I am a girl, I have only seen twenty summers. How could you leave me?" She could feel anger and sorrow deep within her breast.

She heard something stir outside her door, and she quickly brushed away the tears. Raelinda returned, carrying a box in her hands.

"This is a gift from the lord Elrond," she said, and left the box on the bed. Loriana smiled, offering a quiet "thank you", and then the elven maiden was gone.

Loriana ventured to the bed, sitting as she took the box. Lifting the lid, she gasped, a mixture of laughter and sorrow catching in her throat.

She lifted the crown of flowers, white and yellow, and walked to the mirror. Placing it atop her head, she smiled softly, both sad and happy at once.


The feast was remarkable, many elven delicacies spread out. Loriana ventured into the hall, and it seemed that all eyes set on her. For this was the Blackthorne. Legolas' eyes grew wide. It was not possible that this was she; the mangy, dirty, callous girl he met in the forest had transformed into a beauty beyond even the loveliest elvish words?

She smiled gratefully, and nodded to Aragorn when he approached her.

"Loriana," he said, bowing gently. She smiled, bowing her head in return.

"Sir Aragorn," she said politely.

"I knew you were a Blackthorne, but I did not know you to be a beauty."

A blush crept up her cheeks. "Need I take out my sword?" she asked with a smile, but only half-joking.

Aragorn laughed, and shook his head. Legolas approached them, his eyes still fixed on her beauty.

"Lady Blackthorne," said the Elf, bowing in front of the woman. Her eyes twinkled for a moment, then she bowed her head.

"Prince Legolas," she said with a smirk. "How lovely for you to grace us with your presence."

Her words stung him like a thousand bees. Did she see him as haughty? Nae, he was not - that was Haldir of Lorien, but not Legolas of Mirkwood. Before he could respond, he felt a light hand upon his shoulder. Soft, thin fingers.

"This is perhaps the Blackthorne," she said, in a voice both soft and firm. Legolas turned and kissed her cheek, as was customary among elves.

"Aye, it is Veerle," he responded. Loriana felt her heart falter. Arwen had not mentioned an elvish lady in his life. Yet this one was beautiful, with hair of many colors and radiant with gold, and eyes of the lightest blue. She wore an elegant dress, golden, that made hers seem plain in comparison.

Loriana bowed her head, and Veerle did the same.

"I am Loriana Blackthorne," she said, head still bowed.

"I am Veerle, of Mirkwood," the elf said, voice lovely as a rippling brook, and she was still holding onto Legolas' shoulder. He smiled at her, warm and loving.

"Veerle is my sister," he said at last, and Loriana felt as though a weight was taken from her chest. "She is the Princess of Mirkwood, and much younger than I. Still naïve, I fear," he smiled playfully as the elf shook her head.

"Nae, Legolas! I am not naïve."


Then, it seemed as though the walls would collapse. All at once, people began running about. A young man, barely thirty years of age, rushed in, shouting.

"Gondor is under attack!" he exclaimed, running to Elrond.

"Boromir?" the elder elf asked, and the man nodded.

"Gondor, it is under attack. Thousands of orcs, and trolls, and worse things that I cannot mention, stormed her gates ten day ago. Gondor is under attack, and it will fall!"

"The White City will never fall," said Elrond, standing. "Assemble as many as we can spare. Blackthorne!" Loriana looked up. "Are you ready for battle?"

"Of course, my lord," she said, with a nod.

Boromir looked amazed. "This.. A Blackthorne?!"

Veerle's gaze rested on Boromir. He was strong, and had a air of bravery and nobility about him. Before even a moment had passed, she tore it away. Legolas was watching her, concerned.

"Boromir, take rest here tonight, for you have journeyed long. Blackthorne, your council will be tonight, for tomorrow the armies must depart for Gondor," Elrond said, and she nodded.


She sat in a chair, beside Lord Elrond. About them, men and elves sat, staring at her. She felt their eyes, accusing and demeaning her. Even when she looked away, she could still feel them.

"I have called this council here to discuss the legacy of the Blackthorne, and to carry out the test."

"Test?" asked Loriana, almost standing. "What test do you speak of?"

"Do not interrupt, girl," said Elrond, glaring at her. She cowered back in her chair, and he went on. "As you all know, Jilikius Blackthorne was killed several weeks ago, and he has left behind Loriana, his only heir."

About them, men and elves all bowed their heads for a moment, as did Loriana. She was certain none of them had ever met her father; to them, she was merely a name. Blackthorne. How she came to detest the name. She felt the anger grow inside of her.

"They think I am not worthy of the name," she thought, "and they mean to test me - to be sure that I am who I say!" The more she thought, the angrier she became.

Legolas watched her, seeing her face flush with rage. He wanted to place a hand on her shoulder, comfort her, help her. But he himself was not sure if she was *the* Blackthorne.

"Now, for the test," said Elrond. "Stand, Blackthorne." Loriana stood up, hand floating to her sheath. "When I say, draw your sword. You will be tarrying with us."

"Whom out of you?" she inquired, hand grasping her sword.

"All of us, Blackthorne," he said, and nodded to a large man on one side. He stood, unsheathing his own sword. "Draw your sword, Loriana, and tarry."

The large man advanced on Loriana, his sword clanging against hers. She faught back, and within moments had him on his back. Her sword seemed to glow with a yellow intensity. She faught the next, and the next, faltering only once.

Next, Legolas stood.

"Tarry," commanded Elrond, and he advanced, a dagger in each of his slender hands. Loriana swallowed hard, and faught back. His daggers clashed with her sword, and she had him nearly beat. He hadn't meant to slash her arm, but he had by accident. She grimaced, her shield-hand going immediately to her new wound. He dropped his daggers immediately.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping closer to her. "Are you all right?"

"Just fine, elf boy," she grumbled, and kicked his legs out from under him. He landed on his back, and she held her sword to his throat, placing a foot on his stomache. She glared down at him for a moment, then backed away.

"Next?"


Veerle watched the council from above, her light eyes aglow with interest. She watched as the girl downed her own brother, the warrior of her family.

"This girl must be special," she murmured, then heard footsteps behind her. She knew whom it was without even turning.

"Indeed, for she is a Blackthorne," said Boromir, walking to her side. She ventured a look, just one, toward the man beside her. She saw he looked back, with dark eyes riddled with fear and concern.

"You worry for your city," she said softly, placing a soft hand on his shoulder.

"I do," he said, looking down. "But, if this is truly a Blackthorne, then we have little to worry about. For it is prophesized that the Blackthorne will save Gondor," he paused, "They didn't mention it would be a girl, though."

"Things aren't always what they appear, Sir Boromir," she said mysteriously. He met her gaze, and she removed her hand from his shoulder.

"Well, I for one never imagined to fight alongside a woman," he said, and shook his head.

"Women aren't all feeble, Sir Boromir," she said, looking far out into the stars. "Some of us long for adventure, for battle, for honor. But never shall we achieve it."


Loriana returned to her chamber that night, setting her sword down on the bed and stepping to the window. At the end, the council had found that she was, indeed, the Blackthorne. Elrond looked upon her then, not as a girl but as a warrior, after she had downed each member of the council.

As Loriana looked above her, to the stars, seeking answers to questions she could not bring herself to ask, a figure stood below, watching her.

Legolas ventured out to the gardens, sitting beside a fountain. He gazed up, seeing Loriana at her window. He felt footsteps approach, and then heard the sweet voice of the Lady Arwen behind him.

"You watch her," she said, watching him with curiosity.

"I do," admitted Legolas, looking down. "I think of her, and I-" he stopped himself.

"You favor her."

"Indeed," said Legolas, turning to look upon Arwen. To him, even she did not hold the beauty that Loriana did. She smiled sadly upon him. "I think she must hate me, for she is always sneering or grumbling at me."

Arwen could only laugh as she shook her head at the elf before her. "Legolas, how old are you?"

"Older than I care to say," said the blonde elf, sighing. "Much older than she."

"Aye, for she is merely twenty years of age. And yet, with all your years and wisdom, you cannot see it."

"See what?" Legolas asked, raising a delicate eyebrow.

"The reason she sneers at you, and pushes you away. Fair Legolas, her heart is wounded deeply, and she knows what she is to do in this world. She is a Blackthorne, quite possibly *the* Blackthorne that prophecy speaks of. She knows she cannot love, so she pushes you away."

"Do you mean to say that," he faltered for a moment, daring to speak the unimaginable, "that she loves me?"

"I dare not say, for it would only make you dream of her, and long for her. You can never have her, Legolas, no one may. It is sad, but it is destined to be so."