A/N: I do not own LOTR, its characters or settings. Anything new is mine!
On the dawn of the victory at Helm's Deep, it was decided that King Théoden and a band of his men would ride with Gandalf, who had turned his eyes and thoughts onward to Isengard and Saruman. It was not Mithrandir's wish to battle with Curunir, but rather to speak with him, yet the wizard knew that violence might come of such a meeting, and his heart was heavy and his thoughts grim. Though he spoke to no one of this at length, he did mention it briefly to Liathandrial, and she could sense the Istari's unease, and her own thoughts were no less troubled.
Of all the creatures to dwell in Middle Earth, none knew the temptation of the corrupting power of Sauron better then her, for she had once fallen prey to his clever tongue and sweet words long ago. She had been pulled so far under by the web of his words that she had almost been lost. If he hadn't cast her aside…
Lia pushed away such musings, knowing them to be dangerous, for the Abhorred seemed to know when her thoughts were turned to him even centuries after she had escaped him, physically at least. Mentally and emotionally, it seemed as if she had never left him behind, whereas she had no doubt he had forgotten their time together at Minas Tirith. Of all creatures living in the world, only three had ever known of that time, and it was something she tried not to think of with any frequency.
And then, as if in response to her musings, even then, in the light of day, a cold presence touched her for a moment, and with it came a searing pain on her right wing, as if she had flown through a storm of fire, and she knew a moment of fond sorrow. Her keen emerald eyes traced the plumage of her right wing, and beneath the down of her feathers was a faint black mark, a trophy bestowed upon her ages ago, testimony to the most unlikely friendship ever known. Torsyl…
And now she did force her mind from such reminiscing, and the dull throb in her wing faded and grew still, and her mind was once more on the present. She had seen the great numbers of wounded among the people of Helm's Deep as Gandalf rode into the great keep, and her heart was wounded to the point of agony at the sight of their pain, for she was a healer before all else, meant to soothe the wounds of the peoples of Arda.
And so she waited, until Mithrandir had gone to reflect on his own thoughts of the future, and she flew from his side and sought out a cloak that had been abandoned in the hall along with a scabbard, and then went on to the darkest recesses of the keep, and there returned to her true form of her mother's blood. This transformation was brief and simple, and because it was one of her birth shapes, she required no magic to undergo it, and so did not have to fear drawing the Eye of Sauron down upon her once more.
And so from the darkness Athan the Shining had flown into, there emerged the Elf maiden Thandria, though she was known to precious few Elves who did not dwell among the Valar, and none present at Helm's Deep would know of her save by legend, and in those tales of old she was always called Liathandrial, as Thandria was a name she had taken only after departing from Valinor.
Fair of face was she, her beauty beyond compare by all save the Ainur themselves, with skin of alabaster that bore a strange blue sheen that was so pale as to be almost invisible so that all who saw it doubted what was before their eyes, choosing instead to perceive her as fair skinned alone. She had opalescent hair that gleamed silver and fell to her ankles in untamed waves, and seemed to dance around her heavenly body like a living thing with a will of its own. Most striking of all were her eyes, for they were so green as to shame the most verdant forests, and endless, and full of mystery, so that any who met her gaze would experience a sensation akin to falling. And though she was ancient, her appearance was one of youth. In her hands she held a sword the likes of which had never been seen; a magical blade that flashed with all the colors of the rainbow, its spiraling slender length as beautiful to behold as it was dangerous to touch, and it glowed in the shadows like a new star, even as she slid it into the scabbard at her side.
And Thandria then hid her beauty behind the cloak she had sought, so that the face which had inspired endless Elven sonnets was shrouded in darkness, and she passed from the hall without being noticed by all save one, and made her way to where the wounded rested. Thus it was she discovered that though Man and Elf had fought side by side, once the battle was over, each race had gone their separate ways, so that the wounded were littered about, and she was forced to walk a great length to see to them all.
And the very first of them she sought to help greeted her with suspicion and hope at once, for they were leery of her cloaked figure, but desperate for any healing that might be given to them. And so time and again she was forced to reveal at least part of her face, and then while they gazed upon her beauty in rapt attention, she would lay her hands upon their wounds. And one and all she healed, from the most insignificant scratch to the most terrible death wound, all that she stroked beneath her fingers grew whole and healthy, and yet the maiden herself grew tired as her power was drained, and she knew soon she would have to rest, for healing drained her very essence, as the giving of life was so much more difficult then the taking of it. And those who saw her knew magic was surely at work, and whispered among themselves of it.
As she walked among the wounded, the Horses of Rohan who had lost riders in the battle and were alone began to draw near to her, sensing her true nature as all beasts of Arda were able, so that a host of the proud animals followed in her wake, though they were careful to keep a respectful distance. And because her mind was turned to healing the wounded, Thandria took no notice of them, for they bore no evil will toward her and thus she paid the horses no mind.
This was not the case of others, though, and Eomer Son of Eomund who had been seeing to the comforts of those wounded in battle, first beheld her thus: a small shape clothed in darkness and walking in the wake of a herd of horses. And his hand went first to his sword as he took note of her odd clothing, thinking her an agent of the Enemy. But then his puzzled eyes landed on the Horses of Rohan, and he relaxed, for he knew the noble steeds would not tolerate such an enemy among them. And as he watched, he saw how she traveled from man to man, her hands bestowing healing with the lightest of touches, and he marveled at all the strange things he had already been witness to in such a short time, and it seemed this woman was but one more of them.
Eomer was not the only one who had taken an active interest in the woman. Legolas Greenleaf had noticed her walking in the halls of the keep, and finding her dark clothing suspect, the Elf had followed her to the tents of the wounded. He had not relaxed his vigil when she healed the first man, for he had been surprised to feel a faint surge of magic that was distinctly Elven and yet…different. He had no idea who she was, but he did not yet wish to give away his presence, and so he had followed her in silence.
When he had caught a glimpse of her face, he had known in an instant she was an Elf, though she seemed shorter then most of his kind, and there was an unearthly quality to the shape of her face that suggested she was not an Elf at all. Vanyar. That was his first thought upon beholding her radiant beauty, but how was that even possible…
Legolas was aware of the moment Eomer first saw her, for the young lord stared at her as if to devour her with his eyes, and so the Elf made his way to the warrior's side, sensing the young man might do something rash.
When Eomer moved as if to approach her, Legolas circled behind the man and placed a hand upon his shoulder, startling the warrior into drawing his blade. Legolas held up a finger to silence the young lord before he might speak, and nodded in the direction of the woman.
"Who is she?" Eomer whispered, his words strangely urgent and so low that none but the Elf might hear him.
Legolas smiled, his eyes thoughtful. "I know not."
"But she is an Elf," the man insisted. "I have seen her face, and no race besides your own can claim such radiance."
Legolas arched an eyebrow at him, but the lord did not have even the decency to flush, for his eyes were already resting upon the cloaked woman once more, as if drawn against his will.
"While I would love to say such a statement was true, I cannot," Legolas finally said. "There are others who walk this world that are as fair as my kind, though they are few."
Eomer grunted in response, his attention wholly upon the woman. "Why do the horses of my people follow her?"
"I do not know, perhaps you should ask her," Legolas replied. "I am more interested in finding out how she is able to heal by touch. Such a feat is not simple or even well known, and in fact I had thought only the Istari capable of such things."
Eomer frowned at him. "You think she is a wizard?"
Legolas shrugged. "I have never heard of a wizard such as her, but if she were one, Gandalf would know of her."
"Should we take her to see the Grey Pilgrim, then?" Eomer mused.
"There is no need for that," a melodious voice calmly answered him. "I can assure you I am no wizard, and I am no threat to you."
Both Elf and Man turned in surprise, for they had not known she was aware of their presence, and they beheld the cloaked woman as she watched them from the shadows of her disguise, one hand absently stroking the forehead of a horse that had drawn alongside her.
"Perhaps you are no wizard, but how do we know you are no threat to us?" Legolas demanded, annoyed that he had not heard her approach because he had been too engrossed in his own musings while he spoke with Eomer.
The woman gave a slight laugh that was musical and light, and brought to mind fields of sunlit flowers. "Why would I heal your men if I were your enemy?"
"To deceive us into trusting you," the Elf immediately replied, feeling uncharacteristically on edge.
The woman stiffened at the bluntness of his words, and her voice was considerably less friendly when she said, "I have no desire to earn your trust, boy, nor do I wish to speak with you any longer."
Legolas watched in surprised silence as she spun around and walked away from them, her back stiff with anger.
Eomer turned startled eyes to him and said, "She called you a boy, as if you were but a child to her."
Legolas, who had been thinking the same thing, said only, "Perhaps I am."