A/N: Well, what's with me and so many unfinished stories you say? Well, I just get all these cool ideas, write them, then get the dreadful disease of writers block, and…I promise, I shall finish them all eventually, but this one begged to be posted, so… Here goes nothing! Again, please, if you object to my little add-in characters, then cease reading immediately.

Disclaimer: I, lowly mortal that I am, do not own any of Tolkien's magnificent work, nor the rights thereof…just another dedicated fan.

Introduction

It was a dark night in Valinor, strange for that holy, light-filled land. A woman groaned in the agony of labour, and a man could be seen pacing outside the house. The groans built into screams and cries, and culminated with a baby's cry. The man rushed into the house, whooping and hollering, disregarding the fact that it was the middle of the night in his haste to see the child. Yavanna watched with growing unease – something was not right with this one. Something was quite wrong – as if Fate had somehow cut the babe off from her loom. Yavanna stayed, to make sure that the child was physically well, then rushed off to speak with Manwe.

Several years later…

The lithe young girl, dripping with sweat and panting loudly, stepped form the arena. Defeated again. "You did well, for a girl, and a small one at that!" Her opponent smiled. They always said that. And she replied, as she always did, "If I had done well, you would be lying on the floor in there, and I should be the one consoling you for your loss." He sighed. She certainly had given him a run for his money – he was plastered in sweat and panting as well. To think, she was only 13! Grown men had failed to beat him, and here she was, this spindly little blonde-haired princess, tossing him around as if it was something she did every day. Well, he reminded himself as he watched her perform impossible cool-down stretches, she did. Every day, she was down here at the arena, fighting anyone who would accept her challenge, training hard, and performing amazing feats. She was excellent not only in un-armed hand-to-hand, but also in swordplay, archery, and knife work. Only 13, and already, she could beat any man at an archery contest, and was rising rapidly in the ranks in her other skills. Still, she was unsatisfied. She wanted to be the best – the greatest warrior ever – perhaps to even best Tulkas. Everyone knew that it was her dream to fight the Vala, to even be able to spend a few seconds in the arena – which was all she was likely to get, considering his strength – would have been heaven to her. So young, yet so tough – as she had gotten older, only a few Elves would fight her, for many were afraid that she would beat them, and they would have to bear the humiliation of defeat by a girl not yet come of age. The women tried to discourage her from fighting – yes, they were a warrior race, but where would they need any of that training? They were in Valinor now, weren't they? And, even a warrior, if she were a woman, needed to know how to sew, how to cook, how to care for a household…she should really get her head out of the battlefield, they told her mother. She must be taught the ways of a woman, instead of this tomboyish air. Even if her father was one of the greatest of the Firstborn, still, she did not need to fight in any way! Just to learn to use a dagger to defend herself against…well, in Valinor what did they have to defend against? It was all right that the men folk fought – they had nothing better to do with their time. A woman, though…her work was never done. Why couldn't the girl see that? They wondered, shaking their heads. She was one of the prettiest girls in Valinor – and would have looked so pretty, all dressed up and wearing flowers in her golden hair…

The girl knew about the controversy surrounding her. She knew that the women did not approve of a girl so close to the battlefield, so intent on violence. She knew that the men were upset that a girl might become a champion, so backed their wives up. But most of all, she knew that her father was proud of her. He was proud that she could wield a bow so well. He was proud that her shooting was unrivaled by any of the Noldor. He was proud that, day after day, defeat after defeat, she continued to come down and challenge, she continued to fight. To her, that was all that mattered. Her father was proud of her. Proud of her, a girl child. Proud of a little, scrawny (although her muscles were rounding out), pale skinned wisp of a child, proud of a tiny, insignificant girl. That he could be so proud of her – it was something she could never really understand. He was entitled to be proud of her older brothers – the twins were everything a Noldo boy should be. He was entitled to be proud of her mother, for few Noldo had Vanyaric wives, and she was considered one of the most beautiful, and one of the best housewives. But, to be proud his third child, a little girl…it was unfathomable. She mentally shrugged, as she did every time she thought of this, and, her cool-down contortions completed, she began to warm up again, to challenge yet another full grown elf. She had the whole day off, today, and she planned to make good use of it.

A/N: Well, what do ya think? I'm getting better at writing long chapters, although this one seemed kinda muddled but it introduced the main character, so I'm happy. The story is going to be really long (even longer then my Author's Notes! LOL), as it will follow the heroine from childhood until…well, haven't quite figured out where it shall stop. Until I get the next chapter up – au revoir! And please review. Pretty please, with a cherry on top.