Chapter 6


The sky was overcast and the air angry as the screams of a woman in pain poured from the House of Healing. The gray dome of cloud cover seemed to press toward the ground, compressing the air into an angry wind which whipped against the houses, distorting the moans spilling from the windows.

White robes blew about as healers ran for the house, their faces evidence of their extreme worry.

In all the history of Imladris, no birthing Elleth had ever betrayed such pain or expelled so much strength in the trying. There was fear in every face as the cries stretched to each Elf's ears.

Inside the House of Healing, the Elleth was at a brief rest, her hair disheveled, clothes wrinkles, and her body sheathed in sweat. In vain, she sought to catch her breath, her small frame shaking with the effort. But, all too soon, a tight, twisting pain tore through her abdomen, and she sat up, an anguished cry of hurt spilling from her lips. The pain was breathtaking as she leaned forward into her knees, the healers at her feet urging her to be strong.

Strong for what?!she thought bitterly, Strong for a child, the memory of whose creation will only ever bring me pain?

With no conscious thought of doing so, her mind drifted back to the day she'd awoken in the House of Healing.

For a moment, she'd been confused, unsure of her surroundings. But, the white-robed healers beside her had moved away, allowing Lord Elrond a chance to approach.

He'd knelt beside the bed, his face level with hers, and his usually stern countenance had been soft.

"Alquawen," he'd whispered, "do you remember what happened to you?"

In a flash, that horrible day's events had come back to her, forcing tears from her eyes. In tormented silence, she had nodded. Yes, she remembered.

The day had been hot, even under the shade of the trees. Though the Elves had been comfortable, the horses were soon tired. Scouts had been sent out to find a source of water for the exhausted mounts. But, their return brought news of a town, not a river, where the horses could rest. Happy that they'd soon be freed of their burdens, the horses plodded steadily into the village where they shed their riders and were brought to open water troughs.

The villagers were amazed at their ethereal guests, but were still hospitable and offered the Elves refreshment and comfort while the horses were watered. This, they had eagerly accepted, but had no sooner sat down at the table the villagers had set up, then a black-clad band of marauders had burst into the peaceful setting.

Their faces were mostly concealed by masks, and what little could be seen had been covered with thick black pigment. Their breastplates bore the eye of Sauron.

In terror, the villagers had scattered. But their headlong rush left them open to assault and soon, bodies littered the ground.

The Elven warriors of the group defended the weaponless with great courage. But, finding themselves hugely outnumbered, they, too, fell under the barrage of arrows and blows, adding their blood to the already-soaked ground.

Finding herself among the few still alive, Alquawen had run for her horse, who, though frightened, had remained nearby. She never made it that far.

Rough hands landed on her shoulders, grabbing her and stopping her mid-stride. With the reflexes gained by training, she whipped around, an open palm ready to smash into the face of her assailant. But, a new attacker had rushed up from behind and grabbed her arm, effectively stopping her well-placed assault. Utilizing her last means of inflicting pain, she kicked outwards hoping to catch an unprotected shin or groin. Again, it was to no avail, as a pair of arms swept her feet out from under her.

Pinned, she struggled mightily on the ground, twisting and biting. But their collective strength was too much and soon she was exhausted.

As she lay there, panting, trapped by heavy hands, she realized that the marauders were eyeing her body hungrily. A new wave of terro blasted through her as hands grabbed at her legs. Soon after, there was only pain, so much searing awful pain. And then, there was nothing.

Days later, when she'd opened her eyes to find Lord Elrond's stern face peering back at her, she'd remembered it all. She cried for hours, shame flooding through her at the memory of the unwanted, brutal use of her body. The Healers had taken all the pain of her body, but not of her soul. In a flash, she knew she could not live with the memory and decided to take her life.

A voice interrupted her thoughts, the soft, melodic voice of the female Healer. She was saying something about being strong.

"Why?" she whispered through tears, knowing that there was no reason to be strong now that she'd made the decision to die.

"Alquawen," the Healer said, taking one of her hands in her own. "There is something I must tell you, and it will be difficult for you to hear."

Alquawen said nothing in response, the tears still falling from her eyes. So, the Healer spoke on, "Alquawen, you are with child."

Shocked beyond words, she'd stopped crying, unsure of how she felt at the news. Though she'd always hoped to have children, the idea of one spawned under such a vicious assault instilled both a great tenderness and a great loathing in her. Still, the sanctity of the right to life took away any possibility of suicide. No matter how loathed, the child must be given the chance at life. Once it was born, a decision would be made.

So, as Alquawen rocked her body forward, pulling her knees to her chest, forcing pressure into her lower body and crying out, she made her decision.