Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Note for returning or new readers: This is the revise version of Learning to Trust. The old version is still posted and will be until all of the old chapters are reposted, then the old version will be taken off fanfiction.net.

Returning reader will mostly likely notice that not much change in this chapter. Mainly it is sentence structure that did. Though some more detail was added. Most changes will occur around the four and fifth chapter.

With that said, enjoy the story.

Chapter one: Gift or Curse

Golden beams of sunlight drifted through grand windows as a child of nine walked across the marble floor of the dinning hall carrying a stack of plates. Occasionally, she would trip over the mucky rags, once a dress, that she wore. Through the torn fabric, dark bruises and angry raw whip marks could be seen marring her body.

For three years she had lived as a servant to the court of Kalin, her will slowly shackled with invisible chains as she endured each new punishment that the nobles delt her. She heard the minstrel at court sing about life being a precious gift, never to be wasted. But life to her was a curse: more terrible then all the demons in Hell. She was a daughter of a noble, but was treated like a slave. Enslaved by the very father that had killed her mother and wish her dead for not being a son.

Her blood father had been too cowardly to kill her himself and had ordered a guard to do it in his stead. But the guard had not the heart and instead had taken her home to his wife to be raised as his own.
For five blessed year she lived in happiness. Helping her mothers with dinners and wrestling with her brothers, often losing. The end of the day would come and the family would sit around the fire and listen to her father's timeworn stories till mother chased them off to bed. But on her sixth birthday that changed. Rumors had reached the king's ear of a child-image of his first wife.
The lord had summoned the family before the court and ordered them killed while her father watched. All but two: the youngest son, a child of three and her. To this day she didn't know what happened to her youngest brother or foster father.
There were rumors that her father was locked in the dungeons to suffer for the rest of his life. Others said that he took his own life while awaiting punishment. As for her brother, barely a whisper was spoken. The only hushed words she knew where that he was put into slavery while others said a nobleman had taken him as his own. She was unsure of which to believe.
Tripping on the edge of her 'skirt' the child lost her balance and the plates went crashing to the floor, shattering as she fell. Fearful gray eyes widened at the echo of running feet. Hastily, she scrambled to her knees, tears of pain slid down her face as glass shards imbedded into her legs, blood soaking the already blackened skirt. Alarmed, she tried to clean the mess, slicing her hands.
The doors of the dinning hall burst opened and a ragged woman in her late thirties ran in.
"Lillian, child, are you alright?" Tears felled from her eyes unchecked as she shook her head, refusing to look at the woman before her. Grasping the child's wrist, the older woman said firmly, "Stop, you are hurting yourself!"
Furiously, she shook her head, replying, frightened, "He'll be mad. I'll be punished."
The older woman tipped the child's face up allowing Lillian to see the sorrow in her gaze. "I know child. Go to Liz, she will tend to your wounds. I will finish cleaning here."
"But… if the master finds you, you be punished Rena."
Smiling sadly, Rena said, "I know child. All will be well, you'll see."
Shaking her head, Lillian hissed, "No! It's my faul-"
Rena's finger on her lips silenced her outburst, her brown eyes narrowed and she commanded, "Go to Liz, child."
"But…" she protested.
"Now," Rena ordered firmly.
Nodding, sadly, Lillian fled the dinning room, wheezing at the pain that stabbed her body. Tears fell from her clouded eyes. She made her way towards Liz, it was the last time she saw Rena alive.

Ten years had passed since she was that nine-year-old girl. And at nineteen years only thing that had change in her life was that her father had finally gained an interest in her, but not as an heir. No, the King of Rolian would never recognize her as his daughter for he failed to realize he had one. Too long had his mind been lost to wine to tell the difference between her mother and her.
He had called her by her dead mother's name, Lylia, and had ordered her to be at his bedchamber tonight. But she would not go to his bed. She had consented when she was told, but she was no fool. Lillian knew about her blood father's ego. If he thought she would obey willingly, he would order his guards to leave her be until evening. Thus he couldn't stop her nor would he have the chance to do to her what he had done to countless others.
She would not be his mistress; she would not bear his children.
She would die first.
Calmly she walked to the fountain in the mansion garden, sitting on the cold ground. Through emotionless eyes she gazed one last time upon the tiny, imported fish, breathing in the scent of wet flowers. Taking a kitchen knife out of her dirty apron pocket she plunged it into her stomach without hesitation. It was one of the more painful ways to die, but she didn't care. If her soul was immortal, she could be rewarded for a life of servitude, or be condemned for not being satisfied with that servitude. Or, she could simply crease to be in any form and end both torment and/or boredom. Either way, if it meant away from this Hell, she did not care.
As her warm blood spilled over her hands, she failed to notice the changed scenery. No longer did she lay in the manicured garden of her blood father, but a wild forest. Nor did the alarmed voices of a man and three little hobbits register in her thoughts. All she knew was the angelic presence that enfolded her as her mind started to fade to darkness.
Quickly, kneeling next to the wounded lady, a scruffy looking man pulled the knife from her stomach after ripping part of his cloak to create a makeshift bandage. After wrapping it tightly around the wound he gently picked her up, glancing briefly at her closed eyes. "Hold on, my lady." Taking off in a run, the man called back at his companions, "Hurry, We must reach Rivendell!"
Hastily, the halflings followed the ranger while the shortest of them asked, "Isn't there anything you can do for her?"
"Rivendell is less then five minutes away. Lord Elrond will be able to tend her better than I," the man replied without breaking stride.
"But who is she and where does she come from?" another hobbit asked.
"I do not know." He answered as he entered the city.

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