A/N
Hello all,
Welcome to my new fic. Or rather old fic. This is the updated version of a story I created a few years ago and posted to another website. Though back then my writing style was a little different and so I have decided to rewrite this work and post it here for you lovely people!
The story begins towards the end of the battle of Helms Deep and can be considered a bit of a cross over with the Harry Potter universe, given the overtones of magic that are weaved throughout. As I have spent a good deal of the last year crafting a couple of pieces around the recent video game Hogwarts Legacy I ask you to forgive the vulgarity of combining two of my favourite genres into one (for those who object to such things.)
Nevertheless, I hope you find the story enjoyable. As it is already (mostly) re-written I shall endeavor to release a chapter a week. Any constructive comments would be appreciated.
Full summary:
Do you know what it is to be afraid of yourself? To be so consumed by this concept that it seeps like a cancer in to every aspect of your life. How could you ever trust yourself? How could anyone ever trust you?
A young woman has joined the fellowship. Only she carries with her a great secret, one so reprehensible it has her cowering in the shadows like a flower afraid of the sun. Time weaves past as quickly as falling sands in an hourglass and soon the fellowship find themselves increasingly dependent on the strange abilities of the one who has spent a lifetime chaining herself back behind an impenetrable wall of fear.
Destiny is no more a myth than it is a powerful notion when one is so dutifully trained to turn away. But what if the future of Middle Earth were dependent upon such a creature reclaiming what she has lost? How could they hope to prevail?
CHAPTER 1 – Pariah
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 trembling hand. Just as it did now. So little held between her and the final judgement; a tiny, tenuous thread as fragile as silk that chained back the ability to single-handedly shift the balance in this torment. But the cost remained far too hideous for her to bear. And so her secret remained just that. And death lay imminent upon their shoulders.
Beside her, Legolas paused as he hefted the other end of the heavy wooden beam she was holding, seeming to sense her internal struggle as symboitically as if he too could feel it within. 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. But for a moment the tension in the elf's brow eased as something inexplicable passed between them. The comfort of familiarity, perhaps, she rationalised, though she couldn't begin to lift her exhausted features into anything beyond a grimace of acknowledgement beneath the weight of a burdened heart.
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 young woman knew.
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?"
Surprised, 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 from nearby, breaking the men's stare.
Confused, the weapon she'd been holding clattered to the floor as her eyes and those of everyone in the chamber jerked to face the room's only source of light. Indeed Gimli was right. The tiniest glimmer of hope was beginning to cascade through the opening, dredging along with it a warmth of renewed energy that accompanied the flash of a single memory. Gandalf.
They were mounted quickly as the barrier further threatened to cave. Atop her mount, who fidgeted like a flighty dragon beneath her, Isobel drew her swords, momentarily strengthened by determination and the presence of her two closest friends beside her. Time was fleetingly short. She could feel the rug eternally ripping out from beneath their feet as the last of their life's work came ever closer to a close.
Isobel only had a half a moment to meet the stare of Legolas beside her, whose hard gaze immediately softened when they alighted upon her features. And for a moment she was paralysed by the curious notion that the elf prince appeared to be greedily basking in one final opportunity to gaze upon the most resplendent red rose in the garden before the sword came down upon his awaiting neck. She felt the breath solidify in her chest, her ribs seizing around the conviction that this could be the last time they ever see one another again. Something akin to grief speared straight through the centre of her chest and before she could stop herself she was reaching for his hand, possessed by the intention to caress his smooth skin one last time.
Only time had already bolted.
And the were interrupted by the 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, tumbling from the bridge as the companions barrelled through them without pause. With a swallow of trepidation, griml Isobel noted the thousands of cruel faces still hungrily awaiting their chance for blood as they exited the walls of Helms Deep. But she did 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 a particularly ill-conceived blow from an awaiting enemy knocked the limbs out from beneath the king's horse. Miraculously the royal hadn't been squashed by the falling beast but he was hopelessly outnumbered by a hoard of uruks that pounced upon his aged form like hyenas on the dregs of a last good meal. Having only just finalised her own descent from the causeway Isobel was beside him in moments, carving and slicing as best as she could to create space between themselves and their foes.
But it was futile and with a cry of dismay she too was knocked from her horse when the hilt of a scimitar struck a blow near her temple. She could see little but finality as the ground raced towards her; the inevitable demise that loomed ever closer as the thick stench of death invaded her nostrils when she landed painfully upon the fallen. Instantly the wind was knocked from her lungs but she stumbled to her feet nonetheless. Swords raised and ready to defend with a lasting look of 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 rippling 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 with something renewing burning in his gaze.
Isobel hardly had a moment to return the sentiment before the Earth beneath their feet rattled with the thundering of hooves as the soldiers atop the hill raced for their position. Now forgotten, the uruks pushed past the young woman and the monarch, shoving hard in their frenzied attempt to lance spears at the coming onslaught. And whatever foolish thoughts of hope fled in an instant when she saw what the foul beasts were doing.
Valar, they'll be slaughtered. she thought.
Panic quickly overwrote reason and before she could even think about it the young woman was plunging her hand in to her tunic and withdrawing a long wooden implement, much to the confusion of the nearby king.
"Lumos Solem!" The words were shrill when they ripped from her throat, tearing along with it any hesitation that had stayed a fearful hand. Unbridled power rippled from within the centre of her chest erupting from the tip of the wand as a barely controlled flash of bright, white light.
Impossibly the sunlight intensified behind the riders, piercing so painful it blinded 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
Many hours later saw much of the fighting coming to a close. Most of the uruks on the plain outside the ancient fortress had already fallen. There were just a few remaining stragglers that the survivors, both human and elven alike, were making short work of.
At some point following the fall of the deeping wall a band of uruk hai had battled their way to the mouth of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond – where the woman and children remained sheltered. With so many innocent lives on the line a small band of allies had formed a protective barrier, blocking the way of the murderous beasts and the future of the kingdom of Rohan that lay beyond.
It was here Eomer found himself now, blanketed in the darkness despite the scorching sunlight outside. Despite his long years as marshal of the Riddermark, in truthfulness the blonde warrior had never actually set foot inside the glorious chambers before now. He'd never had a need too. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had to acknowledge that the caves were truly beautiful, what with their roughly hewn walls glittering like starlight on a darkened night sky. Not enough to brighten the chamber mind you, but enough glow to satiate the claustrophobic feeling that often accompanied ventures to the deep parts of the world.
But he had no mind for such trivialities in that moment, despite the wandering intent lingering in the recesses of his mind. Right now he was locked in a ferocious battle with a truly heinous creature set to gore him through the middle with whatever crude implement it could get it's hand on. Twirling and parrying, Eomer skilfully met blow after blow from his opponent, neither seeming to gain an upper hand on the other. He was tiring, he knew, owing to their laboriously long ride through the night and the ongoing battle that saw his limbs aching and his eyelids drooping with fatigue. Sweat dripped profusely down his brow, plastering sticky, blonde locks to his forehead. And exertion had the moisture pooling on his fingertips, loosening his grip on his sword that was increasingly becoming more and more difficult to hold.
Clangs and screams echoed all around like some sort of torturous hell loop, set to steal his attentions and cloud his thoughts. With all his might, Eomer tried to block the panic from his mind, attempting to hone the last remaining shreds of his focus on the foe intent on ending his life.
Another clang reverberated painfully in his ears, as shrill as an orc's screech, as he hefted his blade to meet another swipe of his opponent's.
But fatigue was like a cancer; once it started it seemingly grew exponentially until it sapped every ounce of strength from one's bones. And so Eomer didn't see the moment the uruk struck out with a clawed boot until it was too late for him to react. The blow struck him dead in the midsection, forcing the air from his lungs and his feet from under him. His body landed roughly on the hard stone floor, the impact so abrupt it knocked the slippery sword from his grip.
And suddenly it was all over for the marshal of the Riddermark who lay prostrate in the filth, his arms splayed wide and abject horror written all over his face as his opponent raised his scimitar.
Time seemed to stand still, the arc of the uruk's weapon almost visibly parting the air as it descended on Eomer's fallen form.
Only the blow never struck.
In another quick moment, the pointed tip of a sword exploded from the uruk's chest, right where it's heart would have been, if it had one, startling the marshal who withdrew in horror. Torrents of inky, black blood spewed from within, splattering the fallen man's armour with it's pungent stickiness. He could only watch, his mouth agape as his enemy fell to it's knees, the weapon it'd deigned to raise against him falling by the wayside as death dawned in it's cruel eyes.
Just as suddenly the point was wrenched from the uruk's torso, causing the gigantic beast to tumble sideways, revealing a dishevelled but triumphant young woman.
For a moment, neither said anything as Eomer's eyes met a pair of the richest blue ones he'd ever seen. Sapphire, turquoise, jade and azure, the young woman's eyes were a luminous symbiosis of the most precious gemstones in the world, impossibly so, but still radiant in the low light nonetheless. Long, chestnut hair coming loose from her bun, flew chaotically around her filth-strew face, marring the otherwise pristine skin with shades of crimson and charcoal. But it was the expression upon the young woman's smooth features, the expression that was scripted all the way from the curve of her rosy lips to the corner of her eyes, that had Eomer's stoic heart stuttering to a halt in his chest.
She was wild; an exquisite sprite from his most private fantasies, as catastrophically beautiful as she was vehemently deadly. And given they sly smirk she was giving him, she knew it too.
With a tight nod in his direction, she swivelled away, raising her blades without so much as missing a beat to meet the challenge of yet another putrid beast. Eomer could only watch, entranced, as she tore down foe after foe in what could only be described as a graceful dance.
In all his years the marshal had never seen anything like it. The young woman moved with as much fluid poise as water. Power flowed through her lithe limbs, the blades twirling in her grasp as they moved as one. It was like witnessing poetry in motion – and Eomer could not have turned away even if he'd wanted to. She was mesmerising. And his wayward heart was lost.
A shout from the mouth of the cave was the only thing to tear the blonde man from his distraction; a shout that should have sounded melodic but was far too strained to be so.
"Isobel!" came the deep bellow of a male's voice, emanating around the pair and their fallen prey.
With a grunt, the young woman only had half a moment to pluck her blade from her latest victim before she was smothered by an elf with long, platinum hair. From his position in the scrub Eomer baulked when the tall being enveloped the young woman, feeling an irrational pang of jealousy flooding through him at the sight of the fair being's muscular limbs tightening around the female warrior. It was inconceivable but the elf held the female with such a taut measure of desperation to his frame it were as if he were deriving some innate form of comfort from the woman's mere presence alone. Whatever the explanation they were very close, that much was clear.
Something akin to irritation creased between the marshal's brow when the blonde elf easily wrapped a long limb around the woman's waist, guiding her towards the sunlight and away from his fallen form.
And when Eomer finally mustered the energy to stagger to his feet, using his own sword for balance where his aching muscles struggled, he couldn't shake the feeling that whoever she was he would sorely like to know more.
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. Somewhere along the line a heaviness had settled in the fortress; the grim stench of grief, so thick that it had stole the chatter from the air. And it was very clear to the ranger that from the distress etched in the many faces that despite the cessation of fighting, none felt that they had won.
He could only wince when his footsteps echoed defiantly across the otherwise silent room. The sound akin to an accusation, it was hard to suppress the momentary flash of guilt that accompanied. A few stray eyes turned in his direction, drawn to the sound like moths upon a hopeful flame before their expressions crumbled to an inconceivable amount of agony. Tiredly Aragorn reached up to rub his brow, saddened by the burden of a war that seemed inescapable.
Stumbling out in to the failing light of the courtyard, he nearly ran head first in to his elven friend who was headed for the refuge he'd just emerged from.
It pleased the ranger more than he cared to admit to see Legolas looking as wholesome but bedraggled as he did, having not yet taken any rest for himself. The elf's clothing was torn in many places, his ethereal features smothered by a thick blanket of grime, blood and sweat. Somewhere along the line streamers of blonde hair had tugged loose from their carefully crafted braids and now fluttered frivolously around the elf prince's regal head like a crown. But there was something else hanging from the purple bags beneath Legolas' eyes; an exhaustion that seemed to portray far more than just sleeplessness. There was something helpless and instantly the ranger was on edge.
"Where's Isobel," he asked sharply, demandingly, though he satiated the abruptness of his tone by reaching for the arm of his companion. Together they clasped one another tightly, their close position causing the ranger to bear the full weight of the disgust that clouded the elf's tired features with his question.
"Atoning," Legolas spat out distastefully, as if the word itself were blasphemous.
"All day?!" Aragorn asked, alarmed and suddenly very awake. Unconsciously his fingers tightened around the elf prince's elbow, causing his companion to wince when the digits inadvertently prodded a particularly painful bruise he'd sustained in the battle.
"Atoning?" Eomer interrupted, not understanding the context but intrigued by the subject matter. He was seated nearby with a few of the surviving 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.
Warily, the two friends exchanged dark looks.
"You would no doubt have realised after this morning, that Isobel is gifted," Aragorn, explained carefully, tiptoeing delicately around the truth that was not his to tell.
"Yes," the young marshal agreed. "She made the sun blaze with an impossible ferocity. Not to mention her skill with a blade is unparalleled. She saved many lives."
Affirmed, the young ranger continued cautiously, stepping forth as cautiously as if he were tiptoeing through volcanic rock.
"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.
Aragorn clasped the elf on the shoulders, meeting his tired stare. Again, sorrow tugged tightly on the strings of his heart, though this time more for their friend than for anything else.
"Rest, my friend. I will find her," he assured gently.
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 otherwise pristine 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 long 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 and heartsick with grief. 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 to cast desolate eyes over her grim position. She was on the plains 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 save for a few remaining men picked through the corpses, searching hopelessly for survivors. The stench of death lay as thick in the air as the agony permanently scored into the faces of those around her, bringing with it a maddening level of despair that even the most stoic found hard to fend away.
Carefully, the young woman clambered her way over to another. This one lay with his eyes closed, half buried under a pile of stinking uruks. Holding her breath 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 the pulse that was undoubtedly absent. But a tiny moan left the man's immobile mouth and she started.
'Impossible,' she thought, withdrawing her hand in surprise.
With a gentle touch she pushed two fingers firmer against his neck, hoping that the sound hadn't just been a trick of an exhausted mind. But again a faint ripple of life bounded beneath her digits and her own pulse began to race in return. Quickly, she splayed her hands over the man's gaping wound, his blood spilling like morbid paint across her fingers as she closed her eyes and delved deep inside the recesses of her consciousness. Concentrating hard, a powerful warmth flooded through her body, extending from a pit in the centre of her chest and flowing like lava along her outstretched arms to the figure 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.
Beneath her he opened his eyes and sat shakily up, confusion flooding his face as he took in the ragged appearance of the young woman who had just saved his life. Immediately brown eyes darkened with a mixture of both gratitude and mistrust; as if somehow he intuitively knew that he had just escaped an inevitable demise through a small miracle. Without so much as a spoken word the soldier stood, backing away slowly from Isobel as one suddenly too wary to let a predator out of sight. Only when he was a dozen feet away did the man seem comforted enough to be able to turn away from the young woman still crouched near where he had laid. Turning on his heel he strode away with as much haste as his newly healed muscles could fathom.
Leaning back 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, she had the ability to heal. But what struck her as most poignant 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. Sometimes even outward wrath.
Legolas and Aragorn were the only ones who had ever treated her as a true friend. From the moment they had met the trio had been inseparable, bonded by their own share of burdens they did not wish to bear, be that unavoidable destinies or crowns too suffocating for their shoulders carry.
But they were not here right now. And as Isobel sat there crouched in the filth, immersed in a scene that could only be described hell itself, she was powerless to halt the feelings of despair that always accompanied the loneliness.
Just then she heard a whispering on the wind and she twisting around, recognising a familiar voice calling 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 dark blue 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. But most disturbingly a hasty bandage, now stained dark crimson, 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.
"Farn, Dúlinnig," (Enough, little nightingale) his soft voice beseeched, utilising the nickname he had given her so long ago. "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.
Without another word Aragorn helped Isobel to her feet, holding her steady when she swayed for a moment. Then, without warning, the last of her strength waned and the world for her went black.