Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

Thank you to my reviewers!!! :)

A/N:  Shame on me for my negligence of this story.  I have been working on it bit-by-bit.  FINALLY, Chapter 6!   Thank you for your patience.  I wouldn't call this chapter terribly angsty (more gruesome in tone), but I think it works.  Let me know if you think it's too choppy.

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~ Chapter 6: A Precursory Storm ~

Two fleeting figures thundered through tree and over hill beneath the glittering moon.  One appeared a blackened shadow in the night, while the other shimmered with a glow as faint as some far-reaching star.  The sweet, dewy scent of grass and earth hung heavily in the nighttime air as the travelers pressed onward.  Startled fireflies and moths fluttered from beneath the pounding hooves of their mounts, but the two riders remained oblivious of their disturbance of Middle-earth's quiet slumber.  

"Legolas, please explain this to me," panted Bergil, the sweetened wind stealing his breath away.  "Why are we going to warn the King?"

"My heart warns me of dark things," responded the fair Elf.  His slender hand strayed to the flask of miruvor strapped at his side.  He was in no need of rest, but Bergil would undoubtedly require some form of replenishment if they were to continue on into the day.

"Intuition?"  Bergil glanced doubtfully at his companion.  Legolas was forcing them to ride to Gondor in all haste because the Elf had a funny feeling? 

"Nay, Bergil.  It is more than intuition."  He caught the look of skepticism within the young man's eyes.  "More of an…absolute knowing of things to come."  Legolas sighed.  "Forgive me, it is difficult to explain."  He furrowed his brow in thought.  "Bergil, it is like the onset of a storm:  the air feels unnaturally heavy yet calm, and the earth becomes very silent and still.  Know you of what I speak?"

Bergil nodded.  "Yes," he replied slowly.  Storms tended to make him jumpy and on edge.  Now that he thought about it, Legolas did seem as such.  That is, as much as any Elf could be considered edgy.  

"You cannot see the darkened clouds or hear the rumble of thunder," continued the Elf over the galloping hooves of their horses, "but the scent of water and the charge of lightening hang in the air."

Bergil's eyes grew wide.  "Can you… can you tell the future?"

Despite the severity of the situation, the mischievous side of Legolas was hard-pressed to be curbed.  He had always been greatly amused by some of the outlandish attributes mortals credited to his kind.  "Yes," responded the Elf solemnly.  Bergil's mouth hung open in shock.  "I predict that if you do not duck very soon, you shall be unhorsed."

"Wha—"  Bergil turned his head just in time to meet the low-hanging branch face-first.  Legolas grimaced as the young guard fell to the ground with a painful thud.  It had not been his intention for the man to actually hit the tree's limb.  He had forgotten that the reflexes of men were much slower than his own.

'Perhaps I should have warned him sooner,' thought the Elf.  He softly whispered into the ear of his steed and the dapple-grey stallion brought himself to a halt.  Legolas sprang lightly from the horse's back and hurried to aid Bergil to his feet.

"My thanks," grumbled the guard, beating dirt from his tunic and rubbing his sore face and backside. 

"I am sorry," apologized Legolas.  "That was rather cruel of me.  I misjudged the swiftness of your reflexes."  His voice grew in concern as he noticed the young man was examining his hand.  "Have you injured yourself, Bergil?" A touch of regret flashed through him.  Mortals were not as hardy as their Elven counterparts, and the young man had taken a fairly rough spill.

Bergil smiled sheepishly and dropped his hand.  "Er, no.  I was just wondering, ah—"  The Elf cocked his head and regarded the man intently.  "—um, well, you seem to have a strange glow about you, and I wondered if it might have…rubbed off on me somehow."  Try as he might, Bergil could not read the Elf's deadpan visage.  "But it hasn't, so, I guess all is well and you must, ah, glow from the inside… I think…" he trailed off in embarrassment and looked at his feet.

No longer able to keep his smile at bay, Legolas shook his head and chuckled lightly.    "Master Bergil," he stated, the amusement evident in his clear voice, "You are by far the best entertainment I have had in weeks.  Do not fear, Child of Gondor.  Elves are not fireflies:  we possess no illuminating powders.   I could give you my inner light no more than I could my eyes or ears."   

"I suppose I should have paid your kindred more attention while I still lived in Ithilien," replied Bergil.  He smiled cheekily.  "I must remember that Elves are not as mythical or great as I deemed them."

Legolas snorted.  "Of course we are.  In fact," the lithe, glowing archer leaned in closer to Bergil as though he were about to impart a great secret to him, "we are even more so than you believed."

Bergil shook his head in disbelief and winced as he remounted his horse.  "If you say so, Lord Prince."  

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Moonlight dappled the sleepy halls of the White City as Aragorn quietly trod the palace corridors.  Sleep was long forgotten.  Questions concerning the jewel plagued his thoughts and weighed heavily upon him, and try as he might the King of Gondor could not push them aside.  His footfalls echoed softly along the walls.  He gripped the wooden box tightly within his hands.  Perhaps it was only a trick of mind, for in the midnight hours imagination is known to frolic un-tethered, but it seemed to Aragorn that even the wind and shadows reached for his treasure.

At length he came to the heavy door of the mad peasant woman.  Once she had been bathed and fed, and her wounds tended to, she had been reported as behaving almost civilized.  Pausing only momentarily to give a courtesy knock, he quickly opened the door and stepped into the room.  For reasons unknown, Aragorn knew he was not the only one within the castle walls nighttime slumber chose to allude.    The door swung shut behind him with a barely audible click.

The woman lay curled upon her side, opposite the door and facing a tall arching window.  "What do you want?" she whispered, sensing rather than hearing the presence of the King.  She pulled the woolen covers closer around herself and clutched the rag doll tighter to her chest.

Aragorn silently regarded her back for several minutes.  He toyed with the box in his hands, feeling the jewel slide from side to side within.  "I wish to know how you came across this most precious jewel," he softly replied.

The woman shuddered.  "You have opened the box," she stated dully. 

Aragorn began tracing the box's carved waves with his finger as Arwen had done.  "Yes," he replied.  "It was necessary.  Please, tell me how you came across such a wondrous treasure." 

"I have already told you," she exclaimed bitterly, refusing to turn and face him.  "It came from the sea.  It killed my daughter.  It is a most cursed stone!"

Aragorn sighed.  "I do not understand.  In what way was this jewel responsible for the death of your daughter?" 

Bitaliel sat up abruptly and turned to face him.  "She became captivated by it.  She would not eat; she would not drink.  She weighed little more than a bird's feather at the time of her death."  She swallowed as a lump arose to her throat and squeezed the rag doll until her fist turned white.  "The stone is a thing of great beauty and perfection, O King of Gondor."  Bright sparks of moonlight shone in her darkened eyes and she turned to glare at Aragorn.  Her voice became little more than a whispered hiss.  "Such things were not meant to rest in Arda.  Mayhap they were many years ago, when the land was new and the Eldar still rejoiced in its glory.  But those times have long passed."

Aragorn met her gaze unflinchingly.  "Spoken with the wisdom of an ancient one, lady.  You are more than you appear."  He was impressed, in spite of himself.  Perhaps she was not as mad as was previously believed.

The woman laughed coldly.  "Wisdom is gained through pain and suffering, King.  Age is of no consequence."

"Please, call me Elessar."

The woman began smoothing back the frayed yarn hair of the rag doll.  She glanced up and gave Aragorn a slight nod before indicating to herself.  "Bitaliel," she stated simply.  "I am Bitaliel."

"Bitaliel," Aragorn mused.  "Well met.  Well met indeed."  He gestured towards a woven reed chair resting in a dark corner of the room.  "May I?"

Bitaliel turned her face back to the window and squinted as a moonbeam fell across her face.  "If you must."

Aragorn picked up the chair and moved it to the side of the woman's bed.  He carefully placed the box upon his lap as he sat down.  Bitaliel curled her lip in disdain as she eyed the wooden box.  "There is an old saying, among fishermen of the coast," she began.  "'Catch only fish, for the water's secrets are far too heavy and will tear your nets.'"

Aragorn placed both hands over the box's lid and allowed himself a small smile.  The woman was downright sharp—completely different from the ranting peasant who had stumbled into the throne room.  "Ah, you forget, Bitaliel:  I was not the one who hooked this secret."

Bitaliel remained silent.  Aragorn watched as shadows thrown from a tree's leaves outside the window darted back and forth across her blanket.  He could not say what possessed him to do so, but he was suddenly gripped by the urge to look at the jewel, one more time.  It was a pity the woman's child had become fascinated by it until she was led to her death, but children are simple-minded and easily entranced by the smallest things.  The jewel was certainly captivating, and it was only understandable that a child would fall prey to its charms.

Aragorn slowly began to lift the wooden lid.  He had ordered several of his advisors to sift through the ancient books and scrolls gathering dust within the library shelves, in the hopes he might learn more of the mysterious stone.  He knew it to be of Elvish craft, and the longer he held it within his possession, the more his mind began to whisper tales of Fëanor and his precious jewels. 

Aragorn was again rendered breathless as its inner light shimmered within the darkened confines of the room.  He had once witnessed a great battle ship sink beneath the waves, and before the water had reached all parts of the boat and distinguished its lanterns, the ship's light had shone from beneath the water's surface.  The rippling light produced by the sea-colored stone reminded him this experience.  He reached down to pick it up.

"What are you doing!" cried Bitaliel in alarm.  She buried her face in her arms and held the tattered rag doll in front of her, as though the doll were a charm capable of warding off evil.  "Do not touch it, lest you become entranced by it as well!  It is a thing of evil, I tell you, great evil!" 

Aragorn looked at her incredulously.  The stone felt smooth and heavy within his hand, almost as though it belonged there.  "Bitaliel, no evil rests within this jewel.  My own wife has claimed as much.  It can cause you no harm."

Bitaliel shrank away from the stone.  "I will not look at it," she cried, her voice muffled as she continued to hide her face within her arms.  "You must destroy it!"

Aragorn shook his head.  "I would not know how.  And what purpose would there be in destroying something so beautiful?  It was obviously crafted with great care.  To destroy such a thing would be a crime in itself."

"No!" shrieked the woman, rocking herself back and forth.  "So it has entranced you as well?  No matter, it will never have me.  NEVER!"

Aragorn watched with growing alarm as Bitaliel began slipping back into the crazed babble she had spoken in during the morning.  "Éowyn Doll, it is but you and I.  You and I.  I warned the king.  He did not listen—it has claimed him as well.  It will not have us, not us, not us…"  She viciously tore the chipped button eyes off of the rag doll and threw them at Aragorn.

"Bitaliel," exclaimed Aragorn as the buttons bounced to the ground.  "I have put the jewel away.  Look, the box has been closed.  Bitaliel!"  He quickly rose from his chair and set the shut box upon the seat.  The quickness in which she reverted back to her previous state had caught him off-guard.  Bitaliel continued her raving. 

"The box is closed, but I can still see it," she cried to the doll.  "You cannot see it, but I can."

"The box has been shut, Bitaliel.  You cannot see it, I assure you."  Bitaliel began raking her fingers across her eyes, gouging deep ribbons down her face with her nails.  "Cease this at once!" commanded Aragorn.  The woman only increased her frantic mutilation.  Blood welled up and spilled over as she tore deeper and deeper at her eyes.

"STOP!" he roared, and lunged at her.  Bitaliel screamed furiously as her hands were forcefully wretched from her bloodied face.  Aragorn held tightly onto her wrists despite the mad woman's attempt to head-butt him.  For all her frail and wasted appearance, Bitaliel was amazingly strong.  She twisted and shrieked as he pinned her blood-slicked arms to her side.

"I wish to cause you no harm," Aragorn yelled in frustration.  Why was she doing this to herself?  He fought the urge to recoil in horror as the woman's now-eyeless sockets sought him out.  

"I should have thrown it back to the Sea," her cracked voice raved.  "But even the Sea would not hold it.  So I gave it to the Elf-Stone."  She threw her head back and began screaming at the top of her lungs:  "A Stone for the Elf-Stone!  A Stone for the Elf-Stone!"

"Stop!" shouted Aragorn to no avail.  "By the Valar, woman!  Stop!"  The duo's cries blended as one and carried through the night: a song of fury and insanity, alarm and disbelief.

The darkened room was suddenly flooded with torchlight as the broad-shouldered figure of Captain Haier burst in.  He stopped abruptly at the scene before him, causing the several guards at his back to meet in a crushing tangle.  "Call the healer," Aragorn yelled frantically.

Bitaliel had ceased fighting his grasp and now lie laughing in crazed hysterics.  "You cannot make me see!" she cried gleefully, turning her face towards Haier. 

The brave captain dropped his torch and cried out in shock when he saw the woman had gouged out her own eyes.  "Call the healer!" Aragorn cried again.  Bitaliel threw back her head and screamed in rage.

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Arwen bolted upright, the animalistic screams tearing at her very soul.  She instinctively reached for her husband, only to find cool sheets where there should have been a warm body.  He was gone.

The tormented wails rang through the halls again, and the queen quickly threw her covers aside and sprang to the floor.  Still pulling the night robe over her bedclothes, she exited the room with all swiftness and ran towards the sounds of agony.

Of the castle's inhabitants roused by the terrifying screams, those brave enough to peek through their doors witnessed the beloved Queen of Gondor sweeping through the dark corridors of Minas Tirith.  She was truly a sight to behold: her hair, dark and unbound, flowing behind her as did her pale robes.  She ran barefoot, and glowed with the inner light of the Elves.  Those who witnessed the sight from afar cowed in fear and quickly bolted their doors, mistaking her for an awakened wraith.

The screams grew louder and more perverse as she drew near the room of the crazed peasant woman.  Moonlight cast sickly blue shadows along the stone corridors, making them appear more enclosed than they actually were.  Arwen pushed aside her rising claustrophobic panic and concentrated instead on the wailing shrieks that echoed through the grounds.

Turning a corner with such speed that her bare feet nearly slid on the cool stone floor, Arwen was greeted by the sudden appearance of flickering torchlight and guards mulling around in the hallway.  Captain Haier, ashen-faced, was standing outside the door with several others. 

"What goes on here?" Arwen demanded.  Behind the heavy wooden door, muffled voices and the sounds of struggle could be heard.

Haier grabbed a torch and held it up to get a better look at the newest arrival.  He gasped as the yellow-orange flame illuminated the Queen.  "My Lady, you should not be here!"

Arwen turned her piercing grey eyes upon the pale captain.  "Terrible screams awaken the entire city from its slumber—screams originating from my halls—and you would tell me it is none of my concern?"  She stepped into the ring of light and walked towards Haier.  The broad-shouldered captain lowered his eyes in shame and swallowed.

"Please, My Lady…"

"Captain, I repeat: what goes on here?"

The guards exchanged furtive glances amongst one another, but none were willing to meet the eyes of their queen.  "The woman is attended to by the healer, My Lady," began Haier. 

"The healer?  Why is she in need of a healer?"  Without bothering to wait for an answer, Arwen swiftly darted around the Captain's figure and pushed open the door.  Haier made no effort to stop her.  Instead, he focused his attention on the torchlight's shadows, which appeared to make the stones in the wall jump, and grimly awaited Arwen's reaction. 

A low gasp was heard, followed by the flowing smoothness of the Elven tongue.  The captain of the Palace Guard set the torch on a metal wall fastening and rubbed his eyes wearily.  Outside, the seemingly endless night crawled onward:  unnaturally heavy and still. 

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