Eomer had insisted on carrying Isobel back to the fortress though for the life of him, Aragorn could not discern why. It was illogical, preposterous even, given that they'd only met a few hours prior. Despite the grime and the burden of battle Isobel was a very beautiful woman. So it was this he surmised, a notion of infatuation perhaps that had set the marshal's resolve. And so provided his friend was cared for, the ranger had been incapable of formulating an appropriate rebuttal to the insistence. But nonetheless found himself wary of the contact that was surprising as it was sudden.

Carefully the marshal laid the unconscious young woman down on one of the inner chamber's few remaining beds with a measure of reverence that again the ranger couldn't quite fathom. But without prompting the blonde man quickly stepped back, allowing the more skill healer of the two to tend to her injuries.

Aside from the dirt and the copious amount of thick, black blood that stained near every inch of her armour, Isobel actually appeared in pretty good health, all things considered. That is until they removed the saturated bandage from around her forearm. Silently the pair exchanged a wary glance. A deep gash marred the otherwise smooth flesh where a sword had clearly run it through. The edges of the cut were jagged, thick globs of congealed blood oozing freely now that the compression had been removed.

With a sigh and a soft cloth Aragorn set about cleaning the grime from the wound, wincing himself when he was forced to probe deep inside her flesh to pry out the tiniest remnant of the weapon that had injured her. Never in his life had he found himself more grateful for his young friend's stillness than now; so ossified that she could have been made of stone. Not a discernible breath nor a hair stirred on her brow. No reassurance beyond the faintest bounding of a pulse when he probed the supple flesh below her jaw. But as elusive as the animations of life might have been she was at least assured the absence of pain.

Aragorn was silent when he moved by the wash basin to cleanse the young woman's blood from the wash cloth, a solemness that Eomer too, did not feel the need to break as he quietly left the room. Heartbroken, he could feel the heaviness of worry tugging on his already tired brow, another burden to accompany the anguish he nursed for his close friend and her continued stillness. Indeed Isobel looked almost peaceful where she lay against the soft, white blankets; serene even, like she could have been merely asleep and not laying wounded. She was exhausted, that much was clear, in a way that was absolute. And while her current state could be explained by such a notion, the ranger could not shake the nagging feeling that something else was very amiss.

But with there nothing further he could do for her, Aragorn left to find his own temporary respite from reality, hoping that the coercive fear that had settled in his heart was nothing more than that.

oOOOo

The dryness was the first thing Isobel noticed when she finally stirred from her slumber many hours later. That, and the unearthly level of silence that felt as loud as it was jarring.Instantly the young woman felt wariness seep through her blood fuelled by the last fragments of a memory that informed her that this should not be so.

She had been on a battlefield, that much she could remember. And while a former one at that, she knew she had last been surrounded by bodies, death and the god awful stench of decay that stole what little wonder was left from the world. The sounds of misery had layered thickly upon her tired bones, breaking on her eardrums and cracking what was left of her heart as she had picked through the ruins in search of salvation.

But this place – the one she found herself now? This place was anything but. Suspicious, she sniffed the air, inhaling the stale stench of disuse that tickled the hairs of her nose, causing it to wrinkle while her body arched like a cat, her lagging neurons furiously trying to discern why she should feel so comfortablewhen in an environment composed entirely of gore.

Nothing about this place was familiar. And as the young woman wriggled beneath the weight of something obtrusively warm, she couldn't shake the ache that niggled in the corner of her mind.

She hurt everywhere. From the muscles that had held her and her weapons up during battle, to tiny little ones that would occasionally lift the corner of her lips in a smile, everything pulsated with a deep, unrelenting ache. Even her eyelids felt too heavy to lift. But she cracked them marginally nonetheless, allowing a small amount of light that even then felt too bright to pierce her hazy mind.

As the dim candlelight filtered through her lashes, she realised with no small amount of confusion that she was in a bedroom of sorts; one that she'd never seen before. The soft glow of a candle flitted around the small stone room, plain and devoid of all life bar the form of an elf, reclined in a nearby wooden chair.

Relief flooded Legolas' handsome features when he realised she was awake and immediately he moved to sit beside her. Enviably long, blonde lashes shielded his expression for a moment while he closed the distance between them. But for a fraction of a second a dulled mind thought they caught the faintest wisps of a tension behind the elf's normally vibrant blue eyes that hadn't been there before. Unbidden a warm hand pressed into the small of her back, helping her to sit while a cup of water found her hand, encouraging her to satiate the thirst she only begun to recognise.

"12 hours," came the soft elven reply to the question that had yet to escape her lips. "You fainted out on the plains. Aragorn and Eomer brought you here to rest."

But the elf's melodic voice that normal brought her such comfort was laced with a sadness that the young woman couldn't begin to rationalise. And she paused, immediately on edge as she held the cup to her lips, allowing the water to beat upon her chapped lips but no longer drinking her fill.

Legolas looked tired; well, but tired. Astoundingly so. Shockingly it were as if through the long course of the battle all the effervescence had been sapped from his eternally youthful face. He looked aged in a way that was almost worn; like an item of clothing that had been through the wash one too many times. And it hurt her in turn to see him so morose as drastically as if all the luminescence of the stars had fade overnight.

But there was something else hidden behind Legolas' bright blue eyes, a strain that Isobel didn't quite recognise. Lowering the cup she arched a delicate eyebrow at him to ask another unspoken question.

"Whui?" (Why?) came the barely audible response. "Whui ceri- cin glenn- an?" (Why do you go so far?) the soft elvish words flowed, laced with anguish.

For a moment the pause between them seemed endless as the earnest question hung in the air, dangling between them as fragile as a glass ornament. Something vital seemed to hinge on the response she knew her friend woudln't want to hear.

"Cin golodh whui." (You know why,) she finally replied in his native tongue.

The fair elf's face creased as he launched himself abruptly from the mattress, turning away to run a frustrated hand through his shiny, platinum hair. When he whirled back to face her his cerulean eyes were ablaze with conviction.

"Avo baul ech!" (Stop tormenting yourself!) he all but demanded, his chest heaving with the chaotic burst of emotions that had just erupted within; a cacophony of pure, unadulterated disarray. And he hated the feeling all the same; that torturous loss of control that threatened the very fabric of his sanity.

Before the elf had met Isobel, Legolas could have counted on one hand the number of times he'd lost control of his composure. But as time went on and their relationship had strengthened, he found himself increasingly on the brink of explosion far more often than he would like. It tasted unpalatable to the elf prince who had once prided himself on maintaining an impassive facade with as much flawless grace as his father, the cold, elven king, no matter the provocation.

But this? This was different. This was accompanied by an immeasurable amount of fragility; a thorn in the fair being's side, that reminded him that no matter how hard he tried he could not control the uncontrollable.

Given the level of remorse that had plastered itself over the young woman's brow, Legolas immediately regretted his harsh tone. But not the words themselves that had been so laced with a earnestness they'd stung as harshly as barbed wire when they'd ripped from his throat. Taking Isobel's small hands in his, Legolas seated himself beside her once more.

"When are you going to realise that you are important too." he pleaded, affixing her with his heated gaze. Those cerulean eyes of his, so addictively vibrant with all the rich hues of the sea, were boring into her own with such open vulnerability."When will you see yourself as I do?"

But the scrutiny was far too much for the young woman whose mind was frayed and she faltered, painful images flooding unbidden to the forefront of her memory. Brown eyelashes immediately clamped tightly shut in a naive attempt to block the horrific images from view. But it was futile and instantly her teeth found her lip, digging painfully into the tormented flesh in a way that had her elven companion sighing with renewed despair. Isobel was too exhausted, in too pain much and far too devoid of any form of resilience to answer hard questions right now, the attentive elf could see this as plainly as if she'd said it aloud. And immediately he felt the wind deflate from his sails.

"I can not lose you, meld mellon," (dear friend) he murmured and without hesitation reached forth to gather the tormented young woman in his arms.

She was trembling, he could feel it. From fatigue or turmoil, he wasn't sure. But she sagged in his embrace the minute their chests met, her own tension evaporating the moment she pressed her bruised face in to the silken skin of his neck. Long platinum locks blended with her own chestnut ones as she allowed the comfort of familiarity to wash over her and immediately the panicked beating in her ribcage began to slow.

His own heart just as frayed, Legolas could no more help the moment his own body sagged with relief than he could when he placed a single, delicate kiss to the base of the young woman's neck.

But like most things in life, solace was a fleeting gift.

A hard rap on the door broke the intimacy. Even more so when without waiting for admittance the door burst open with an enormous crash to admit Holdwine, a captain under Eomer's command, and two other rohirrim soldiers.

Disturbed, Legolas stood, pulling his friend's ragged frame from the bed to shield her behind his body. A warning had struck through his heart with the abrupt intrusion, though he could no more explain it than the panic than now held his posture rigid. The harsh realisation came when the elf prince's sharp eyes landed on the hilt of the intruders' swords, noting just how stiffly the trio clung to them as if it were their last life line.

"What is this?!" Legolas demanded sharply, unconsciously tugging the young woman further behind him.

But the captain only ignored him, his face creasing into a hard glare as he leaned around the elf to address Isobel directly.

"You are to come with us immediately by order of Theoden King."

Her hand still in the elf prince's grasp, he could feel the moment the young woman flinched, her own body immediately freezing to stone behind him when the cold words assaulted her ears.

A long moment passed where neither dared move, each party holding stance while they glared at one another. Legolas knew he was unarmed and outnumbered but the unsympathetic demeanour of the captain and his guard had him fearing for the safety of his companion. Their impasse, it seemed, was unbreakable.

That was until the elf prince felt a gentle hand rest upon his shoulder. Hardly daring to move, Legolas craned his neck around, ensuring to keep the interlopers well within his peripheral vision, to meet the dark sapphire gaze of his female companion. Isobel's expression was sedate when she side-stepped around the fair being. But her small smile was tight and her gaze filled with an unfathomable level of resigned melancholy that the elf's heart immediately seized in his chest. Terror gripped tightly around the fair being's throat and suddenly he was overwhelmed by a distasteful measure of powerlessness.

Legolas did nothing to stop Isobel when she wordlessly bowed her head to trail after her captors. It made him feel sick to watch her go like some poor innocent, wretch condemned to the gallows by lesser men. But with the three soldiers, armed and bolstered by an entire army of Rohirrim still lurking in the halls above, Legolas knew there wasn't anything further he could do to help her.

It broke him.

And that was something he truly abhorred.

oOOOo

Eight years earlier.

Isobel was seventeen when she began courting a boy from the nearby town of Dale, much to Legolas' chagrin who upon first meeting most definitely did not like him. Slyly he'd taken to referring to the boy as i gáfrui (the flea) in deference to the fact that Legolas felt this creature fell so far below what she deserved. But even then the elf prince was forced to concede, that for all the boy's misgivings this nickname was still woefully insufficient; after all, however annoying they may be, fleas still had their place in maintaining the delicate balance of the ecosystem.

Sure, Sebastian was handsome enough, he supposed, from a purely mortal female perspective, of course. With his soft, wavy auburn hair that perpetually made him look like he'd just rolled out of bed, and the cocky quirk to his lips that had him swaggering with far too much confidence for his own good it was easy to see why all the local girls swooned over this beast. Disgustingly, they preened and peacocked whenever he strode by flipping their hair and casting flirtatiously longing gazes in his direction as if they too could do no better than to scrape the bottom of a stinking fish barrel. The boy seemed to have a power over women that made them turn into a gaggling puddle of baser instincts. And he knew it too, given the way he carried himself with such arrogance that it set the elf prince's teeth on edge.

Not even in his younger years when elleth chased him by the droves through his father's halls did Legolas behave as pretentiously as this beast. As always he was eternally committed to showing the utmost respect to the females he bedded and never, ever did he use his looks to coerce someone into doing something they weren't comfortable with. Not once. Unlike this pompous buffoon.

Isobel swore Sebastian was different when they were alone; that he was passionate, loving and attentive. That he carried her heart with more tender dedication than she felt she deserved.

From her descriptions alone, Legolas could see why she was smitten. Sure, Sebastian was a passionate sort who threw himself wholeheartedly into whatever challenge he set his sights upon, and clearly right now, that was Isobel. But if rumour were to be believed, he was also prone to a rashness and flippancy that saw him flit from obsession to obsession. Rules, laws and consequences be damned – he would drag himself down to the depths of hell, if he so needed, along with anyone else who happened to be trudging behind.

And that ultimately was Legolas' problem with Sebastian. Isobel was just another conquest; the shiny jewel as radiant as the gems of the king himself but tarnished by a cruel history that made her vulnerable to the attentions of scum like him. A beast who would have no qualms in manipulating her into doing things she'd never even dream of under the guise of earning his affections.

And it made Legolas wonder just how far i gáfrui (the flea) would go to exploit his friend's gentle heart for his own selfish endeavours. And moreover, just how long he would string her along before he would toss her to the side and move on to his next conquest.

Fortunately Isobel had taken to debriefing with the elf prince at the conclusion of each of their dates; a measure that he had insisted upon after a particularly agonising incident in which she had snuck out one evening to meet with the boy but hadn't made didn't make it back to Lasgalen until noon the next day.

And for her trust, Legolas was very grateful for two thing: firstly, he yearned for the closeness with her and was truly enamoured by the way the young woman felt comfortable enough to share with him the intimacies of her relationship, even if it meant the elf had to endure more than a few specifics of a creature he secretly abhorred. And secondly, it meant he got a first-hand look into the behaviour of i gáfrui and could thus ensure that he was worshipping Isobel like the princess she was.

It was particularly late this evening when Legolas had found her seated by the bubbling spring in the king's gardens. Usually he would have waited in her chambers for her to return after a date. But as the hours had waned he grew worried and had gone in search for her instead.

He approached her silently from behind, marvelling at the sight of her slim frame bathed in the glow of the moonlight. It was a cloudy night and so there were little stars to alight the dark sky. But the moon was on full show, round and luminous where it cast serene rays over the quiet evening. Isobel's long chestnut hair was loose around her shoulders, glancing softly against her back as a gentle breeze tossed it this way and that. He could see the pale swell of her cheekbone on the side of her face, as smooth as ivory and glowing in the low light. She'd chosen to wear an ice blue gown that hung low on her chest and skimmed her hips tightly, emphasising her small frame and offsetting the subtle peach hues of her skin, as warm as the first spring sun and as alluring as the bright red roses that grew from it.

As he drew nearer he could hear her singing softly to herself and he found himself captivated by the sound. Isobel's voice was as sweet as a whisper of honey on the breeze and the elf found himself drawn to it, feet pattering almost unconsciously towards her as if she'd bewitched him with some spell. She sung better than most elves he knew, her voice as breathtakingly harmonious as it was laced with the poignant sorrow that always seemed to shadow her heart.

"Gin suilon," (Greetings) he murmured, lightly touching Isobel's shoulder to alert her to his presence and causing her gaze to dart in his direction.

Immediately her sweet voice faltered and she was turning away to rearrange what Legolas had first interpreted as a pained expression. He felt his own heart begin to patter as he seated himself beside her.

"How was your evening?" he asked softly, inexplicably feeling as though the strings of his own heart had been tugged southwards by the young woman's sedate demeanour.

Beside him a small breath escaped the young woman's lips and her brow creased as if weighed down.

"Fine," she replied, though she did not look in his direction. And that alone was enough to nag further at the prince's worries.

He turned to face her, concern creasing every inch of his ageless face. "Isobel?" he pressed.

But she only swallowed hard and looked down at her hands where they folded in her lap, long tresses shielding her expression from view. Suddenly, she appeared much younger than the elf prince had ever seen her. Panic began to well along with the worry.

"We had sex," she offered shyly, her blue gaze still solely trained on her hands. "And – I don't know how I feel about it."

Legolas couldn't help his sharp inhale of breath with the revelation. Nor could he help the way his body had stiffened beside her. He knew she had been a virgin until this evening, she'd once told him this outright. And he knew her well enough to know that she would not have made the decision to give away her virginity lightly. It had to have been a momentous event that had lead to her sleeping with this boy, this gáfrui, as he had so named him. And that in itself made Legolas angry. Unwittingly his mind began to free fall, running rampant with thoughts of false words and whispered fallacies – anything that the lowly beast could have said to coerce the beautiful woman next to him into trading away her innocence. Thunder burned through his veins, as poisonous as it was vengeful.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked through gritted teeth, setting his resolve tightly against the surge of unwanted emotions that had him warring with the urge to squash the unworthy bug into a puddle of goo.

"No," she said softly, too softly. And straight away the elf prince knew it was a lie. His molars bit harder into each other to the point where he almost thought he might shatter his jaw. The untruth had sparked one final question that now nagged in his mind; one horrific little beast that had to be uttered, no matter how much he might abhor the answer.

"Did he force himself on you?" he growled darkly, failing entirely to constrain the rage that burned brightly in his eyes.

Isobel's gaze was sharp where she finally looked in his direction, alarm written all over her beautiful features.

"No!"

And until that moment Legolas hadn't realised he couldn't breathe. Appeased slightly, he finally felt his ribs relax, though this did nothing for the irritation still taut on his jaw. He settled for reaching a twitchy limb around the young woman's waist, drawing her hips against his in an encouraging embrace. Immediately she settled into his touch, the soft crown of her head finding the comfort of his shoulder.

"Then what is it?"

"He didn't hurt me per se. Maybe a little. Okay, a lot. But nothing to worry yourself about! It's just – something wasn't quite right. As if maybe it was wrong to have gone there. Not the act itself, but us – he and I. I don't think I can quite explain it."

Listening to this made Legolas feel as sick as if he'd swallowed an entire casket of his father's most potent sweet wines. But he made himself endure the uncomfortable discussion for the sake of the young woman he adored.

"Did he at least try to – " uncharacteristically the elf prince found himself floundering, mortified by the content of the discussion he'd never found himself needing to have with a female before.

" – prepare you?"

Legolas tried his damnedest to suppress the grimace that threatened to consume him when the words fell from his lips, both equally intrigued and repulsed by the intensely private glimpse into his friend's personal life. But the look Isobel turned in his direction with nothing short of innocent, a confusion creasing between her eyes and immediately he knew the answer before she'd even spoken aloud.

"'Prepare me?'" she quoted, tilting her head as if to better understand something particularly confounding.

Something erupted deep inside that threatened the elf prince's carefully crafted composure and he was tugging her closer before he could utter something truly reprehensible about the vile beast that had hurt her. Bile rose in his throat at the thought, simmering nicely along side the feelings he had finally recognised as jealousy.

I gáfrui was unquestionably an inadequate name for this thing that had been given the honour of taking her innocence. That filthy, slimy, undeserving creature that had clearly sought his own pleasure with no concern for her own or her well-being. Legolas could feel himself shaking with an outrage that he only half-hoped she couldn't feel through their touch.

Suddenly 'The Slug' seemed a much more apt name and he felt the word curl on the corner of his mouth in a way that was as distasteful as it was almost a snarl. Clearly he would have to have words with this 'slug' about respect. And should the relationship continue also to teach him the proper ways to take care of the women he was intimate with.

And as much as that conversation would be even more mortifying than this one – no, actually, Legolas surmised he would derive a form of perverse pleasure from rubbing the slug's own flaws in his face – he knew it was a necessary one.

He would do it for her, despite how much the thought repulsed him.

Always for her.

oOOOo

Isobel was led through the long network of tunnels that formulated the backbone of the fortress of Helms Deep. The air was heavier here, the darkness more encompassing the deeper they went, save for the small torch Holdwine held aloft. Deeper and deeper they went and she shivered as the cold closed in around her, blanketing the freezing woman in an immeasurable amount of despair. There was something so perversely familiar about the whole affair; something truly well versed in the pages of history books – an unfathomable level of bigotry towards her kind as pervasive as a plague of pestilence upon the crops of the righteous.

Not for the first time shame flooded itself to the forefront of her mind and shades of grey clouded her vision, filling it so effectively it became impossible to see anything beyond the agony of her own imminent demise. The young woman swallowed hard, choking on the tears of frustration that threatened the last of her composure while little but sheer stoicism carried her reluctantly onward.

The soldiers that flanked her seemed not to notice, or if they did, they seemed ambivalent to her distress. Their faces still held that concerned tension, their hands yet to relax their grip on the hilt of their swords. Each footstep seemed to reverberate ominously around them as the young woman wondered with no small amount of regret what awaited her at the end of the tunnel.

Finally they stopped at a door and a dead end. With a wordless thrust of his hand, Holdwine shoved the exhausted young woman forward, causing her to stumble against the hard, wooden surface.

She was trembling, she knew, when she depressed the door handle, powerless to do anything but accept the fate that waited for her on the other side.

Finally the door yielded to reveal a large stone room, richly decorated with tapestries and fineries. In the middle and beside the ornate fireplace, the room's only source of light, sat an opulent four poster feather bed clothed in crimson velvet and adorned with gold embroidery in the form of the crest of Rohan. Nearby stood a large carved table, positively littered with parchments and ink, everything askew as if it had been haphazardly sifted through.

It was here that Isobel found the king pouring over an ancient map of the world. And basking in the heat of the fireplace, reclined the blonde warrior she'd seen in the glittering caves – Eomer, as she now knew – a drink of mead poised in one hand.

Judging from the opulence alone, this was very clearly the king's personal chambers. The horror of familiarity gripped her ribs tightly, banding around them in a way that made it hard to draw breath. Panic welled in her eyes, dilating the pupils so dramatically it made the young woman resemble an innocent doe, paralysed by the stench of the hunters that lurked nearby.

But Isobel knew she was anything but innocent. And it was this thought alone that had her steeling her resolve, ensuring her footsteps were resolute when she stepped forth into the flickering light. She came to a halt but a few feet away from the monarch, dark blue gaze fixed upon the stones by her feet, silently willing courage to find her where strength would not.

The waiting, it seemed, was endless. And as the seconds dragged on, so too did it drain on her fortitude. Finally Eomer swivelled, coming face to face with the young woman he hadn't heard enter the king's chamber. Reaching out to rest his glass upon the mantle he fixed the young woman with an unreadable expression. Before clearing his throat to garner the attention of his monarch.

The older man started at the sound, having too, not noticed the appearance of the young woman just barely clinging to the last threads of resilience. Distractedly, the parchment fell from his hands as he appraised her smooth features, light blue eyes roving her pale face in earnestness. Wordlessly he walked over to take her shaking hands in his own and she tried not to flinch when he lifted them before him with an inexplicable reverence that seemed as perplexing as it was ominous.

Carefully the king turned the digits over, inspecting the smooth skin as he asked softly, "What are you?"

There was no threat in the monarch's voice, but the question set Isobel's teeth on edge nonetheless. It was the one question, the one secret, that she feared most to reveal. The greatest source of animosity that saw her ostracised time and time again. The hard lump of abhorrence settled in her throat once again, stealing what little strength was left of her voice.

"Please," the king implored gently when the young woman failed to respond.

Trepidation creased Isobel's brow and she found herself unable to meet his gaze. But there was little cause for a commoner like her to refuse the command of a king. And inevitably such ill-conceived actions only ever translated to an incredible amount of pain. Fear rippled down the young woman's spine, every hair on her body suddenly standing on edge as the awful reality settled into place. It didn't matter which way she looked at it, she was trapped; caught between a web of deceit and the unspeakable truth that no one would want to hear. Either way she was damned.

"I'm a witch," she whispered finally.

Frozen in place, her heart thumping heavily in her ears, she waited for the inevitable repugnance that usually accompanied such a confession. But surprisingly none was forthcoming.

Instead she tensed, unsure, when the king took her in his embrace to whisper in her ear, "You are a formidable creature. Gratitude is not enough. We owe you so much."

"Thank-you," the monarch said, his eyes holding an impossible sincerity as he now held her at arms length, leaving the young woman even more displaced than she had been before.

She should have been disarmed by the sentiment, pleased even, by the acknowledgement of her unfathomable abilities. But if anything the earnest words only had the opposite effect, leaving the young woman increasingly suspicious as she waited for the proverbial shoe to drop. Smirking from his position by the fireplace, Eomer inclined his glass towards her, tipping his head in equal acknowledgement.

And as Isobel stepped back in to the cool corridor she found herself trembling once again. Only this time more violently and borne of a sentiment riddled with scepticism.

What the hell had just happened? Where was the repulsion? Where were the flaming pitchforks and the chains?

She had entered that room expecting to exit with heavy menacles wrapped painfully around her wrists and ankles. Instead, all she had found was . . . acceptance? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts that were far too hopeful. No, perhaps that was wrong word. Perhaps what she saw was in fact need; the need of a desperate people who in dire times made use of all the tools available in their belt.

Before long, Isobel's feet had traversed the long corridors back. Still ensnared by the thoughts that sought to steal her sanity, she pushed through the wooden door without even thinking to find herself once again in the main hall. The sudden, sharp creak drew the attention of the hundreds of survivors who had been supping on breakfast on the other side. And Isobel froze, suddenly realising that all eyes were turned on her and judging from the looks on their worn faces, they knew. They all knew.

A cold sweat broke out on Isobel's skin as she stood, no longer able to move under the fierce scrutiny. To her left there was the shattering of terracotta hitting the floor before she was enveloped in a foreign embrace. Golden curls smothered her face momentarily as the voice she recognised as Eowyn's murmured affirmations in her ear.

"Thank,-you, thank-you, thank-you, for my brother and the soldiers and the women and children," the blonde woman stumbled, her voice disjointed with heavy emotion.

And one by one, some of the survivors at the table stood to line up behind them. As Eowyn released her, Isobel was greeted by hands clapping her shoulder, or clasping her own. Others, unable to get close enough, merely nodded their appreciation from across the crowd.

Startled, she searched the room for some familiar form of reassurance only to meet the grey eyes of the ranger she held so dear. Aragorn had a knowing glint in his eye as he too inclined his head with a conviction he knew Isobel deserved and she felt her stale heart flutter with a feeling she hadn't recognised for the longest time.

Yes, she thought, still in shock but slowly acclimatising.

Just maybe.