Hello, everyone. This is a story that has been on my mind for an exceptionally long time and I have finally decided to publish it. The story takes place at the end of The Two Towers and works on the premise that the OC is an additional member of fellowship who accompanied them from Rivendell. I have not yet decided whether I will write the story from the beginning of that time or not. But for now, I hope it works for you all. It is a vague Harry Potter cross-over of sort, in that the concepts of magic carry over but none of the characters.
Credits to Tolkien for this incredible universe and it's characters. As well as JK Rowling for the same.
Warnings for graphic descriptions of post-battle scenarios and in later chapters implied rape and smut.
Thank-you, enjoy and please review!
CHAPTER 1
Isobel was weary in an all-consuming, indescribable way. It permeated every aspect of her being; from her muscles, to her brain, right through to her very soul.
She watched as the scarred wooden doors before her thundered, again and again. Dust fell in shower of neglect with each strike, as the uruk-hai unleashed their unrelenting barrage. Starkly she could feel the futility of it all run through her, resonating like a drum from deep within her chest, pounding in perfect harmony to the attempts of their enemies to break in. Too late did the pertinent question sit on her tongue, burning with guilt and regret.
How did it come to this?
Not for the first time did she wonder if she could have turned the tide of battle by using her other abilities. But fear, a fear of outright rejection from those who did not know, had stayed her hand.
Beside her, Legolas paused as he hefted the other end of the heavy wooden beam she was holding. Their eyes met momentarily and she noted the same weariness on his handsome face; a face now besmirched by smatterings of sweat and blood from the night's onslaught. For a moment the tension in the elf's brow eased as something inexplicable passed between them. The comfort of familiarity, perhaps.
Together they carried the beam over to the soldiers, to the ones who still desperately clung to hope, as they held back the door and their inevitable demise.
Below, the terrified cries of the women and children could be heard. They shattered through the darkened room like shards of broken glass. Fear and defeat encompassed them all like a suffocating blanket. It would not be long now.
The king's voice echoed around their stony refuge.
"The fortress is taken," he said, his voice thick with acceptance.
Running over to grab another plank, her dear friend and companion, emphatically challenged, "You said this fortress would never be taken while your men defend it!" Aragorn paused for breath. "They still defend it! They have died defending it!" he emphasised.
The tension was punctured by another desperate cry from below as the doors to their refuge caved just that little bit further.
Isobel tossed another axe to the rohirrim to add to their barricade as Aragorn negotiated for the women and children to flee.
"So much death," muttered the distracted king. "What can men do against such reckless hate?"
She paused in her ministrations, watching the scene before her. Impetuous thought crossed the face of the ranger she knew so well, his eyes flashing with a fierceness she'd only seen a handful of times before.
"Ride out with me," he challenged, meeting the king's stare. "Ride out and meet them."
Intrigued, the older man turned to face the ranger. "For death and glory," he said.
"For Rohan," came the reply.
"The sun is rising," their dwarven companion noted, breaking the men's stare.
Looking to the only window, Isobel realised he was right. A warmth of renewed energy flooded through her as a memory flitted through her mind. Gandalf.
They were mounted quickly as the barrier further threatened to cave. She drew her swords, momentarily strengthened by determination and the presence of her two closest friends beside her. Together they would ride out. Together they would fight. To the death, if needed.
Two things happened simultaneously; the earth shattering thundering of the horn of the Hornberg reverberated all around them, just as the uruks smashed through the door.
With a cry from the king, they were riding, carving and dicing as they charged down the causeway. The enemies body's scattered everywhere, falling from the bridge, as the companions barrelled through them. With a swallow of trepidation, Isobel noted the thousands of cruel faces, still hungrily awaiting their chance for blood, as they exited the walls of Helms Deep. But she would not allow herself to entertain this fear for more than a heartbeat. She could not. Her very life depended on it.
As they landed at the bottom of the causeway, the king was knocked from his horse. With a cry of dismay, Isobel stood, flipping from her horse to land beside the fallen royal. Swords raised and ready to defend, defiance firmly set in her eyes, she waited for the onslaught.
But it never came.
Through the clangs of metal, the roars and the battle cries, came a horse whinny, loud and clear through the early morning sky.
The air went still and deathly silent as all turned to face Gandalf, seated on Shadowfax and crowned in golden sunlight, at the top of the nearby hill. Beside him sat a familiar marshal and his company of rohirrim.
"Eomer," the now erect monarch said beside her, meeting her gaze.
The Earth beneath their feet rattled with the thundering of hooves as the soldiers raced to their position. Now forgotten, the uruks pushed past them, shoving hard in their frenzied attempt to lance spears at the coming onslaught. Alarm raced through Isobel's mind as she saw what the foul beasts were doing.
Valar, they'll be slaughtered. she thought.
Thinking quickly but finding no other option, the young woman plunged her hand in to her tunic and withdrew a long wooden implement, much to the confusion of the nearby king.
"Lumos Solem!" She shouted, flicking the wand in the direction of the rohirrim.
Impossibly, the sunlight intensified behind the riders, piercing and painful, blinding the uruks and allies among them. With terrified whinnies and the ferocious shouts of men, the riders charged through the paralysed enemy, cutting through them like butter.
oOOOo
The battle had raged on well into the morning at the end of which not a single uruk stood standing. Many lives of men had been lost and many, many more maimed in the horrors.
After a assisting a few of the wounded, Aragorn had succumbed to exhaustion and he'd been forced to retire for a few hours rest. Still shattered from their long night but awoken by the sounds of the survivors, he rose to find the women well in the process of making the evening meal. There was no chatter amongst the solemn faces for despite the cessation of fighting, none felt that they had won.
The ranger's footsteps echoed defiantly across the otherwise silent room like an accusation as he made his way through the entrance hall. A few empty eyes turned in his direction, the marks of grief painfully evident upon their faces.
Stumbling out in to the failing light of the courtyard, Aragorn nearly ran head first in to his elven friend.
The latter looked wholesome but bedraggled, having not yet taken any rest. His normally vibrant eyes, masked an agony that the ranger knew had to be running through his friend's gentle heart.
"Where's Isobel," the ranger asked, rubbing the sleep from his face.
Disgust clouded the elf's tired features.
"Atoning," he spat out distastefully.
"All day?!" Aragorn asked, alarmed and suddenly very awake.
"Atoning?" Eomer queried, not understanding the context. He was seated nearby with a few of the remaining rohirrim. A red fire blazed between them, though for the many it seemed, the warmth did little more than light an otherwise bitter night.
The young marshal had dispensed of his armour since the battle, his blonde hair fell down to frame a burdened face that still bore the filth from last night's malady.
The two friends exchanged dark looks.
"You would no doubt have realised after this morning, that Isobel is gifted," Aragorn, explained carefully.
"Yes," the young marshal agreed. "She made the sun blaze with an impossible ferocity. She saved many lives."
Affirmed, the young ranger continued cautiously, "Yes, well, Isobel believes wholly that her abilities are a curse. Her greatest fear is that others will fear her and so she feels she must atone for who she is."
"Aragorn, she must rest! Before she kills herself," Legolas interrupted despondently. "But I am weary from battle and from trying to make her see reason," he sighed.
The ranger clasped the elf on the shoulders, meeting his tired stare.
"Rest, my friend. I will find her," he assured.
oOOOo
With shaky fingers, Isobel reached forth to press into the neck of the fallen man before her. He lay askew, piercing eyes unblinking, frozen with an unseen terror. A thick black arrow protruded awkwardly from his chest, pools of deep red marring the front of his armour. For all intents and purposes he looked dead. But she had to be sure.
His flesh was cold to the touch; the flush of life she should of felt had been extinguished.
The young woman sighed, nausea threatening her empty stomach at yet another gruesomely maimed body. Tears prickled behind her closed eyelids. She was tired; so, so bone-achingly tired. As she knelt there, a cacophony of emotions raced through her; anguish, regret, fear and in that moment each one threatened to overwhelm her as the bitter taste of bile retreated once again. She would not allow herself to rest yet. Not while there was any chance she could use her abilities to undo some of the evil inflicted here last night.
With unsteady legs she rose from her crouched position. She was on the plain outside the walls of Helms Deep. Around her the field was littered with plague of mutilated bodies, both human and uruk. Everywhere she looked black filth mingled with red, besmirching the once serene earth like a cancer. Swords lay scattered, the air disquietingly silent as a few remaining men picked through the corpses, searching for survivors. The stench of death lay as thick in the air as the agony permanently scored into the faces of those around her.
Carefully, she clambered her way over to another. This one lay with eyes closed, half buried under a pile of uruks. She wrenched the nearest creature off, revealing a long, deep gash through the man's torso. Hope fled as she crouched down beside him to check his pulse. A tiny moan left the man's unmoving mouth.
'Impossible,' she thought, withdrawing her hand in surprise.
With a gentle touch she pressed two fingers against his neck. A faint ripple of life bounded beneath her digits. Quickly, she splayed her hands over the gaping wound, the man's blood spilling like morbid paint across her fingers, as she closed her eyes. Concentrating hard, a powerful warmth flooded through her, extending from deep inside and along her outstretched arms to the man beneath. It only lasted a fraction of a second but that was enough. When she withdrew, the infliction that had marred the man's flesh was gone. Confusion flooded his face as he opened his eyes and sat up. He eyed the young woman with a mixture of both gratitude and mistrust, before standing wordlessly and making his way back to the fortress.
Isobel sighed, feeling keenly the curse of her affliction. It was always the same. She was a pariah wherever she went for, among other things, Isobel had the ability to heal. But what struck her most in that moment was that no one, not one, ever paused to ask what it cost her to heal them. For it was with bitter irony, that the act of revealing her powers only lead to suspicion and distrust.
Legolas and Aragorn were the only ones who had ever treated her as a true friend. Isobel suspected it was because they too had their own share of burdens they did not wish to bear, be that unavoidable destinies or crowns too suffocating for their shoulders carry.
Twisting around, she heard a familiar voice call her name.
Aragorn and Eomer approached, carefully stepping their way between the fallen. Aragorn's worried eyes met her own as he crouched down beside her. Laying a hand still stained from the battle on her upper arm, he searched the young woman's face. She looked truly awful. Deep rivulets of red marked her eyes, a testament to her total exhaustion. Her ivory skin, more pallid than usual, was still smeared with thick layers of sweat, dirt and blood. A hasty bandage, now stained deep red, had been tied around one of her forearms and beneath his fingers, the ranger could feel her trembling.
Aragorn frowned, realising the extent to which she'd once again ignored her own needs in favour of others.
"Enough, my friend," his soft voice beseeched. "You have done more than enough. Now it is time to help yourself."
The young woman opened her mouth as if to argue, but instead bowed her head in acquiescence, noting that the conviction in her companion's grey eyes invited no protest.
Aragorn helped Isobel to her feet, holding her steady as she swayed. Without warning the last of her strength waned and the world for her went black.