Hello all! I'm sorry that it's been awhile, but life intervened as usual. This is a longer chapter to make up for it! I hope that you enjoy it and please review! Reviews make the world go 'round! Thanks to the folks who reviewed my last chapter - I greatly appreciate it! Here you go!

Odilyn

Disclaimer - The Lord of the Rings is Tolkien's genius. I also used his dialogue for the Council of Elrond. It was too good to pass up!

Chapter Five

The sun was filtering through the emerald leaves of the large tree outside her window, giving her bedroom a very leafy feeling. She sighed in contentment and began to experimentally stretch out her various muscles. Anariel, though skilled in healing, had shown how much of her elven skill she had lost by not realizing that the orcish blade that had cut her arm had been poisoned. It was a very slow-working poison, designed more to incapacitate any escaped prisoners than to inflict any lasting damage. She had been abed three days at the stern command of her uncle and today would see the end of the confinement to her room.

Her uncle – she recalled how his face had been the first sight to meet her eyes when she revived from her fever-induced sleep. His eyes, once filled with cold anger and disappointment, were now soft and loving. He held her in his arms and whispered endearing words. He entreated her to forgive, to forgive the harshness of his words and the pain he had caused her. It had been surprisingly easy to do as he asked. Her mortal life, though it would last much longer than others, was still too short to sully with petty resentment and bitterness. And it had just felt so good to be held again, to be loved. It hadn't filled the empty spot in her soul, but it had taken the edge off the pain and had lightened her spirits considerably. She felt a small part of the joy she had possessed many centuries ago return to her.

She stretched and rose, slightly unsteadily, from the soft bed. She was dressed in a nightgown, so she walked over to the wide wardrobe. Opening the doors, she was slightly stunned to see some of her gowns from fifteen years ago still hanging there. Elves, and those few elves who have chosen mortality, change little or very gradually over the years. Anariel knew they would fit her. Choosing a light blue dress trimmed with gold, she quickly changed. For the first time in almost fifteen years, she left her fiery hair to hang in soft curls down her back. She observed herself critically in the mirror.

This experience is already taking its toll on me, she thought.

Her hair looked shinier than it did when she had healed Lindor and her eyes were a little brighter, but even in sunlight, which used to enhance her elven beauty, she knew that no one in Imladris would ever again mistake her for an elleth. She sighed but straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

No one will ever love me for my looks. I will not have myriad admirers, as Arwen does.

Rather than feel disappointed or bitter, this thought rather lifted Anariel's spirits higher. The one whose heart would belong to her would not be fooled into thinking himself in love, when all he truly felt was admiration. No. The one to whom her heart would be given would love her for her mind and character and that love would make her beautiful, not the other way around.

She exited her room. The wide hallway was empty and quiet. There was no one in sight and even with her retained elven hearing she heard nothing. It was odd. There was a restlessness in the air. A single clear bell rang out. She started down the hall in the direction of the sound.

She came upon a wide porch. A strange assortment of beings was gathered there – men, elves, dwarves, and the strange little creatures called hobbits. Anariel had seen only one before, many years ago when her heart was light and the valley was filled with song. She shook her head free of the memories and refocused her attention on the gathering. A dwarf was speaking currently of, what else, mines. Anariel smiled softly. She had had her dealings with dwarves and, despite the general prejudice against them, had grown fond of the gruff, but true-hearted, creatures.

Her uncle was there, a serious and thoughtful look on his face. Gandalf the Grey, the Istar, was present, as she knew he would be. She greatly respected the wizard, though she knew him personally but little. Three hobbits were next – an aged, familiar one; a weary-looking, serious one; and another seated at the serious one's feet and looking at him with a concerned expression. The weary one seemed burdened, weighed down. Anariel felt a great menace on him, but not of him. She shivered and her gaze moved on. There was Glorfindel, the recipient of the majority of her pranks in the old days; an elf from the Grey Havens; and Legolas of Mirkwood. She smiled more exuberantly when she saw him – he had been one of her dear friends and the only one to rarely contact her in the last fifteen years.

There were two dwarves – one was very aged and looked slightly familiar; the other was younger and sturdier, with a full, brown-red beard. There was a man next. He was tall and strong-looking, even sitting. He had dark hair and grey eyes. He had a proud air and Anariel noted the horn hanging at his belt. This was a man of Gondor.

Her gaze moved to the next man and was startled to see him meet her eyes. Her heart started thumping more rapidly and she felt her cool mask of composure slip firmly into place so that he should not see her blush. He had grey eyes, as the Gondorian did, but his were softer and wiser. He was dressed ruggedly as the Rangers of the North did, but he was more than that. Anariel could see it. He was the most noble-looking man, or elf, that she had ever seen.

She realized that she had been staring at him for a few moments. She inclined her head slightly at the man and turned to go. She did not want to eavesdrop on something that was not her concern.

She found a secluded spot, not too far form the porch where the Council had convened. She could hear the murmur of the voices, but could not make out the speech unless someone spoke loudly. She sighed. She didn't know why, but that man had unnerved her. She didn't know who he was, but something about the way his glance had made her heart twist and writhe within her scared her. It was strange.

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Aragorn's mind wandered for a moment as Gloin began speaking of Moria. He had heard the story before – one of dread and sorrow. His eyes glanced around the circle and then, for some reason, were drawn to the shadows by the doorway. He was slightly surprised to see the woman Elrohir had brought standing there. Her eyes were moving around the circle, appearing to appraise each member of the Council. Aragorn thought she was pretty to a certain extent, but certainly no great beauty. Her hair was the most striking thing about her. It was like red-gold flame. She was a small thing, she would probably merely reach his shoulder were he to stand next to her. Her eyes moved to his. She showed a moment's surprise at being caught, but then regained composure and looked cool and calm. Aragorn was struck momentarily breathless as he met her eyes and the speech of Gloin faded even further into the background. Her eyes – they looked just like the laughing blue eyes that had been haunting his dreams. But they were not laughing now. They were guarded, shielded, the emotions kept at bay. A very slight tinge of pink graced her cheeks and she nodded her head at him once, then turned gracefully and left. He sat stunned. She was not beautiful. Compared with Arwen, she was positively ordinary. And yet her gaze had held him enthralled. Him – Estel, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir, who had seen many of the most beautiful women and elleths in Middle Earth. Yet none of their eyes had been burned into his mind as this small woman's had. It confused him. He decided not to think on it at the moment. He turned his attention back to the Council.

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Time seemed to drag on for Anariel. She sat, still as a statue, and listened to the steady rise and fall of the murmuring voices. She knew that she should just go and get something to eat, but she couldn't. Something wouldn't let her. Some part of her heart that was wiser than the others told her that the Council would be critical, that the fate of Middle Earth would in some significant way be affected by what went on in that group of strange creatures.

All of a sudden, she heard a clatter, as of metal on stone, then a clear, strong voice saying: "Here is the Sword that was Broken!"

Anariel stood and softly crept back to the doorway leading to the porch, careful to stay hidden this time. She saw the Gondorian standing, his eyes wide in wonderment, looking at a mighty blade that was in two pieces lying on the stone table. The other man, the one who made Anariel's breath come shorter, was standing also, his chin drawn up and a chill flame in his eyes.

"And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" The man of Gondor said with a look of slight disdain as he gazed at the weather-stained Ranger.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn, and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son. He is the Chief of the Dunedain of the North, and few are now left of that folk," Elrond explained. Anariel felt little surprise. She had suspected that this man, though rugged and worn, was something greater than he appeared. It was there – in the lift of his head, in the bearing of his shoulders, the light in his eyes. Here was the heir of Isildur.

"Then it belongs to you and not to me at all!" The burdened hobbit leapt from his chair and clutched at something around his neck, something which Anariel felt was the source of the menace surrounding this meeting.

"It does not belong to either of us" Aragorn said gently. His voice sent chills up her spine. "But it has been ordained that you should hold it for awhile."

Anariel was puzzled for a moment. What were they talking about?

Then he brought It out. The halfling stepped forward at the command of Gandalf and held it up in his hand – One Ring to rule them all.

The words pounded in Anariel's head and she stumbled back from the doorway. Once around the corner, she leaned against the wall and placed a shaking hand on her cheek. This was it then. The doom of Middle Earth, Isildur's Bane, in the hands of a hobbit. This was what the Council was about. It had been found.

She knew how it would end. There was only one way. There was only one way to try. Success was a dim hope, but try they must. It must be destroyed.

Anariel steadied her breathing and trained her ears on the voices now speaking.

"Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?" The man of Gondor spoke despairingly, yet Anariel thought she saw a hint of desire flit though his eyes.

"The words were not 'the doom of Minas Tirith'." Anariel closed her eyes at the sound of his voice and let it wash over her. "But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. Now you have seen the sword that you have sought, what would you ask? Do you wish for the House of Elendil to return to the Land of Gondor?"

His voice grew in splendour, to Anariel. She wondered if anyone else heard it? Judging by the Gondorian's next words, she thought not.

"I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle," he said in a proud tone. "Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope – if such a thing could indeed return out of the shadows of the past." Anariel could hear the doubt and scathing in his voice as he looked at Aragorn and she felt her burning temper spring to life within her.

Could he not see the greatness of the man before him? To her eyes, it was as though the very glory of the kings of old had taken flesh. Perhaps his eyes were veiled though. Perhaps the worry for his country and its people blinded him to the power of the Ranger before him. She cooled her anger.

The older hobbit stood suddenly. There was a snap to his eyes that suggested he was as angry as Anariel had been, but he was not about to let it go. He spoke:

All that is gold does not glitter;

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither;

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken.

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken:

The crownless again shall be king.

"Not very good perhaps, but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it." He sat down with a snort of impatience.

Anariel internally applauded the plucky fellow. The words that he had spoken had made much clear to her. She now knew who Aragorn really was. He was Estel, the hope of men. She remembered how he had been raised in Imladris. She had never met him though. The years he had lived in Rivendell, she had spent both with Galadriel in Lothlorien and with Cirdan at the Havens. He had already left when she returned.

She turned away form the Council, from the small porch where the fate of all would be decided. She would do what she could of course, but her role would be small. The halfling would be much more important to this war than she.

She had never been more mistaken.