The sky had darkened by the time Isobel woke from her dreamless slumber. Hours had passed and so when she exited the tent it was to an eerie camp made solemn by the threat of war. None would look at her as they moved around, readying themselves for the impending dawn departure. What was odd was that for the first time since arriving in Rohan the young woman couldn't shake the feeling that for once the solemnity had less to do with her and everything to do with the gloom of demise that hung in thickets over the encampment. And as vile as it sounded to her, she almost felt glad.

Almost.

The macabre stench of death was everywhere she turned. From the grim masks they wore and the stooped shoulders that lumbered past to the shrill scrapings of whet stones the finality was as tangible in the air as the stench of the fires; suffocating, through and through. The bitterness of it clung to the buds of her tongue, latching on to the waning sense of hope as a reluctant child unwilling to part from their carers. And she had to turn away to shield her expression. Moisture had begun to sting in the corner of her eyes, burdened with the knowledge of all those things that remained to be said with so little time remaining.

There was only one name lodged in the forefront of her mind when she finally mustered enough fortitude to venture out from beneath the parted folds of the tent, only one that neither fear nor distraction could pry from her grey matter. Legolas. She had to find him. Pain in her flank be damned, she knew she could not rest until all that remained obtrusive between them had finally been obliterated.

Isobel's steps were somewhat maddened when she staggered between the tents, owing to the obsessive thoughts overriding her sensibilities and the wound her on flank that tugged on the injured flesh like a scalding fire. But it mattered little to the young woman who could see nothing else. Somewhere along the line Legolas had become a part of her. His affection, his approval, his love, all of it unified with the lifeblood beating rapidly in her chest. She knew she could not exist in any other conceivable reality.

It was very clear to her earlier that that the elf prince continued to be burdened by the actions that had seen her part from him. Though she didn't fully understand the sentiment, nonetheless she knew it was her fault. There had been a sorrow to his earlier kiss, much as it had been there behind his eyes.

Of all the creatures Isobel had encountered through her travels of Middle Earth, none were more ethereal than the elves. And none more so than Legolas. For the longest time she'd held him far above her; the being whose soul seemed to be born from pure starlight. The one whose affinity for the nature around them was so inherent it was almost symbiotic. It seemed a reprehensible thing to cause pain to a being so untainted; a mortal sin even, akin to pissing on the statue of one's most exalted deity, forever staining their other-worldliness with such common filth. Blasphemy sat uncomfortably in the back of Isobel's throat. An immobile lump of crudity and disgust.

Unconsciously her feet had her meandering towards the king's tent, hoping to catch sight of a familiar pair of pointed ears by the large fire that roared before it.

Solemnity gripped her before she rounded the final tent, a moroseness that had little to do with isolation seeping beneath her pores that stole what little warmth was left from the night sky. Bright golden flames licked high in the air, crackling and snapping in a way that should have been welcoming. But given the sheer number of down turned heads, it was clear it offered little tonight but a superficial comfort for those on the brink of open war.

Eomer was the first to acknowledge her presence, but even he too appeared more dour than she had ever seen him. Brown eyes flecked with the gold of the fire alighted ever so slightly when they took in the appearance of the young woman in the shadows and without hesitation the marshal beckoned her forth with an extended hand.

Isobel's posture was a good deal less encumbered than the last time they had seen one another. Her face was impassively smooth when she strode towards him, her blue eyes clearer than the marshal remembered. Eomer couldn't help the moment a soft smile twitched the corner of his lips when he captured her hand, revelling in the sweet scent of her skin as he laid a tender kiss upon the flesh.

"Are you well, my lady?" he asked, dark eyes never leaving her own.

"Aye," she offered easily in return, though it was no more a lie than the small twitch of her own smile.

Gratefully she accepted the position beside him, seating herself upon the same log that rolled beneath them slightly with the influx of weight. For a moment there seemed little to say. As if entranced or perhaps burdened all eyes turned fire-ward, the art of the spoken word dying on their tongues as effectively as the logs reducing to cinders. Finally Isobel found the effort to speak.

"Have you seen Legolas?" she asked to no one in particular.

Instinctively Eomer turned to face the young woman at the softly spoken words, his eyes surveying her face as if hoping to find some remaining morsel of the passion they had once shared. He was true to his word when he sought her forgiveness for not knowing of her affections towards the elf prince.

"Nay," he found himself replying, captivated as a pair of deep, sapphire eyes met his own. But the marshal was also a man, and a selfish one at that. Isobel was truly a beautiful woman and no measure of friendship nor sense of honour could make him regret the kiss they'd shared. His heart had flared with a warmth he'd never felt before the moment their lips had touched. It had been more invigorating than a dip in the chilly Entwash on a bright, summer's day. Dully in the back of his mind he could only hope that it would not be their last.

He could only watch as Isobel nodded slowly, a tiny strain creasing between her brow with a distance he didn't quite understand. But before he could question it a gruff voice broke between them, jerking the pair from their mutual distraction.

"Aye, do not fret, lass. Legolas loves you so. He might not be good at showing it. He is a pretty, pompous princeling, you mustn't forget. But he loves you more than life itself. He may just needs a reminder some times."

The young woman couldn't help the moment her eyes clouded with Gimli's sincere words, grateful for the offering that saw her more fulfilled than she'd felt in a while. The sentiment was exactly what she needed to hear; what she needed to do for Legolas to repair the small tear in the fabric of their relationship.

Suddenly, the tent flap behind them flew open to reveal an impeccably dressed guard with a stern temperament.

"You there, witch!" an accusatory finger jabbed sharply in Isobel's direction and she tensed as if waiting for the punishment to befit a crime she'd unknowingly committed. "The king demands an audience."

The marshal could feel the way Isobel's own body went rigid beside his when she rose to her feet, as if poised for the fight she didn't want to have but knew was coming. But what he found most ioncurious was the surety to the young woman's posture that was a far cry from the humble one he'd come to expect. This woman was confidently proud. The change confused him to no end.

Isobel tried her best to unclench her jaw when the tent flap closed behind her, bathing her in a dim glow so starkly different to the radiant light from the fire that it took her eyes a few minutes to adjust. What came in to focus then was nothing she could ever had predicted. A tall and richly clothed figure stood statuesque still in the corner of an opulent study, his stern features immediately recognisable beneath a pair of solid grey eyes.

A cry of surprise left Isobel's mouth before she was launching herself at him, her small arms immediately encompassing the elf who almost embodied a father figure for her. Far less gracious than he appeared, Elrond couldn't help the chuckle of delight that fell from his lips when the young woman embraced him, warmed by the rush of affection for the young witch that was so uniquely human. From against the silken fabric of his chest, a pair of moist blue eyes lifted to search the older being's face, her expression flooded with a mixture of relief and adoration.

The storm grey ones that returned the gaze couldn't help but arch in surprise at what he saw on the young woman's features. Long fingers found the softness of her chin, lifting the younger face to inspect her more carefully.

"There's something different about you, child." Using the fingers beneath her jaw Elrond turned Isobel's head this way and that. "You're a little less battered than when you usually show up on my doorstep. But there's also something else. A surety that I've never known to be upon your shoulders before. Am I to assume that you and Legolas have finally expressed your affections for one another?"

Shock widened the young eyes, a flush flooding her skin akin to outrage mingled with a mortifying level of chagrin. The elf's mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

"I am pleased for you both. You deserve to be happy, despite what you might think."

Frustrated, Elrond could only watch as those sapphire blue eyes closed off to him, hardening with the vision of a cruel reality that only she could see. Dark brown tresses danced slightly in the low light when she nodded her head, understanding but not quite accepting the well-intentioned words. Smooth fingers found the curve of her jaw again, forcing the young woman to lift her bowed head once more.

"You are a truly magnificent creature to behold, Isobel. None can compare to your resplendence. You are the only one in many thousands of years to be able to wield the kind of power you do."

The glimmer that had been there shifted from her gaze, a slow blink all the agreement she could offer; no more renewing and far less agreeable.

"Felin achas" (I am afraid) she murmured in reply, appearing so very distant to the one who stared at her.

Elrond's exhale was tangible on her skin, a soft breath of warmth as it was understanding.

"Av-'osto, hén. Estel cin. Dorth- thand na cín emel." (Do not fear, child. Trust yourself. Stay true to your heart.) the elf's words were a caress of gentleness, one that for once didn't have the young woman cowering like a flower afraid of the sun.

It had taken the older elf many weeks of rough travel to be here upon the mountain at this pivotal moment, armed with a dual purpose that had seen the fair being leave his home for the first time in many centuries. Truthfully was only one thing that could have driven the powerful elven lord with such haste and alone at that. Love; the love for his daughter and her mortal beau. And the love for the subdued creature before him whose magnificence was yet to be recognised. His heart told him that for better or for worse, Isobel would have a substantial part to play in the final outcome of the war.

Shortly after Elrond made his excuses, leaving Isobel alone with the king she wasn't sure she could fully trust. There was something profoundly soulful that encompassed the older elf, a wisdom that seemed to follow him everywhere. Whether it was age or the nature of his character, being around Elrond always made Isobel feel at peace. His mere presence alone had a way of sapping away her previous transgressions as if they were no more than innocent acts committed by children and not the heinous deeds she knew them to be. Watching him leave that night was akin to peeling away a scab; it only left emptiness behind and a gaping, raw wound that bled profusely, despite it's age.

From his seat, the king was watching the plethora of emotions that flitted over the young woman's face with interest, intrigued by the reunion that was no more explicable than her abilities with magic. The expression she turned in his direction when she finally acclimatised was nothing short of guarded, a wariness through her features despite her best intentions to suppress it. Theoden wasn't sure if he should be flattered or offended.

Mercifully, their encounter had been brief. The king had only wished for the opportunity to enquire into her success upon the plains and thank her for the service. The whole affair left her feeling disquieted when she exited the king's study, as if something should be awry where it otherwise appeared to be not. There had been a sincerity to the king's words that had felt far more genuine that Isobel often felt she deserved. It left her doubting the authenticity of all the abhorrence she'd ever directed towards herself.

She found Legolas near the outskirts of the encampment appeasing Arod with quiet elven words. Even from a distance she could recognise that the elf's handsome face was sombre tonight, his bright eyes heavy with a dejection that pulled painfully upon the strings to her heart. Familiar feelings of burden flitted through her mind but she did her best quash them as she approached the pair lost to a private moment of comfort.

Legolas' sharp hearing detected Isobel's approach and he turned to fix the young woman with a shy smile, reaching over to take her small hand in his own. Their eyes met when a pair of warm lips ghosted her fingertips, a humbled expression of uncertainty barely constrained behind each.

"Felig vae?" (Are you well?) he inquired.

"Eithel farn," (Well enough) came the soft reply, tinged with a small amount of acceptance. Aching, she reached for him unconsciously, hands automatically finding their way around his waist to draw their bodies together. The elf prince accepted the embrace with as much reluctance as a starving canine being tossed a scrap of food from atop a table; gratefully but oh, so conversely afraid.

"Iz," Legolas murmured, his shoulders drooping with disquiet when his own hands landed firmly on her hips. Blue eyes sought forth, imploring her own with a bone-deep sincerity that seemed to tremble the air between them. "Felin achas." (I feel afraid.)

"Hi penin achas," (Now I lack fear) she countered, challenging the prince with an irrefutable stare that seemed to burn into his own with the intensity of the sun. "Estellio ammen. Estellio mìn mîl." (Trust us. Trust our love.)

But if anything, the elf's countenance sunk visibly before the young woman's eyes. Unease marred his handsome face as the vexation that continued to torment him scored deeply in his gaze, creating chasms of anguish that almost seemed impossible to traverse. And finally Isobel understood that however well-intentioned the true casualty to her actions in Edoras had been the damage to her relationship with the elf prince. But in actuality, there had been nothing altruistic about the deed that had seen them part in the first place. It had been pure greed, through and through; the young woman's unending desire to satiate the guilt that had been a pestilence upon her shoulders for years.

And it was only now when looking into the scars that wrote themselves like curses over Legolas' pristine skin, that she realised just how selfish those actions had been.

Her mouth fell open with a regret she couldn't begin to express but her sapphire eyes blazed fiercely nonetheless. "Gi melathog N'uir. Fel- nin." (I love you for all eternity. Feel me.)

Without warning a small hand was thrust against the centre of the elf prince's chest before he could react to the confusing statement, startling him with the unnatural warmth to the touch that seemed to seep beneath his skin. Inexplicably a searing heat permeated within, wrapping around his heart as if the muscular organ had suddenly been encased in protective vines composed of pure energy. The accompanied feeling that flooded his system was like nothing he'd ever felt before. And he was inhaling a sharp breath as it permeated his veins as effectively as if he'd injected the photons directly from the sun itself. It was indescribable; the purity that raced through his body, so radiant and unquenchable. Life giving. Eternal.

In seconds it had suffused through the remotest regions of his limbs, igniting them with a glow far more resplendent than the light from mithril itself.

And when he lifted his eyes, finally could he recognise the feeling for what it was.

Love.

The elemental form itself.

Pure and irrevocable.

Legolas could only suck in a shaky breath, eyes flaring with the weight of an affection that could never again be matched.

There was something distinctly shy in the gleam of Isobel's eyes where she took in the elf's reaction, as if she too were only just recognising the allure of the stars themselves where they shone in the night sky.

"Gi melathog N'uir," she repeated firmly, finally fuelled by the credence and assurance that accompanied confidence.

Cerulean eyes ignited with conviction as the weight of her earnestness finally registered.

"Naw," he affirmed before pulling her in for a searing kiss.

Legolas' lips were on fire where they coupled with her own. Softly, the kiss was barely more than a feather light breath on her skin; a whispered caress on the wind that was far more intimate than anything the young woman had ever experienced before. It set her own heart aching with an unparalleled want and she was sliding further into his arms with a dying whimper in her throat. Soft fingers swept a heated path up the elf's neck, allowing her to tangle them in the flaxen vines beneath his long braid. Their chests simultaneously collided, their heads tilting unanimously to allow their lips to fuse firmly together, solidifying the touch of her hand to his heart where it remained trapped between.

Greedily Legolas swallowed the young woman's whimper, capitalising on the moment by plunging a wet tongue into her mouth. He couldn't help but shiver when her own slid along his, just as greedy where it sought to explore the cavity of his own mouth.

For the young woman the moment was simultaneously the most erotic moment of her life whilst categorically remaining no where near enough. Her heart was aflame within her chest; burning, aching, throbbing with the need to be consumed by the elf prince. Everything about the harmony of their bodies that had every nerve along Isobel's frames singing with the sweetest symphony for Legolas alone. It was wondrously fulfilling all while concurrently being a cacophony of electrically torturous insufficiency.

It felt akin to bolts of lightning bursting from every pore on her skin; thunderous clouds of raw power exploding with emotions that were as elementally vital to her survival as the act of breathing itself. But despite their unmatched fury, something fundamental remained elusive and despite their power, those lightning strikes were never quite enough to strike true to the ground.

So it surprised her when her flank struck a hard surface, tearing a gasp from her throat that momentarily broke their kiss. Legolas was on her in a heartbeat, his searing lips claiming hers again with such ferocity it were as if it were physically painful to be separated from her for too long. The firm planes of his muscled body automatically slotted between her thighs when he forced the little air remaining between them to flee. And Isobel could only gasp again when something long and hard pressed into the softness of her belly.

But there was none of her aforementioned shyness when a clothed leg lifted to wrap around the elf's waist. Nor was there again when the elf bent to lift her into his arms. Isobel's resultant moan was loud and protracted, reverberating long into the night sky when the movement united their loins, spreading more than just legs in what could only be described an exquisite torment of passion. Rigidity met heat while they continued to kiss, the elf's hips beginning a slow grind along her parted flesh to repeatedly stroke the bundle of nerves hidden within.

Overcome, Isobel's breaths disintegrated into needy pants against Legolas' lips, less an active participant in their kiss the more aroused she became. Her own hips began to cant against his, repeating the path that felt so exquisitely delicious whilst simultaneously feeling all too frustrating. Yanking gently on the wavy locks that hung loose from her bun, the elf encouraged his lover to tilt her head to the side, allowing his lips the opportunity to lock onto the smooth skin of her neck.

"Er aur. Ú- i anna-," (One day. But not the present,) the elf growled lowly against the curve of her neck, teeth pinning neatly the pristine skin when the woman in his arms attempted to elevate herself just that little bit further in a bid to unite their bodies fully for the very first time, despite their clothing.

And despite the words to the contrary he was powerless but to grind his shaft against the warmth between her legs again. He could feel Isobel's desire soaking through the fabric of her leggings, so much so that when he drove himself hard enough against her, he could almost envisage how heavenly it would feel to slip inside her heat.

Slowly, deliberately, Legolas dragged his shaft through her clothed folds one last time forcing the young woman's head to loll backwards when the head of his member pushed firmly into her clitoris, sending sparks of pleasure tightening along the muscles of her abdomen. Automatically her eyes snapped open skyward, a moan vibrating deep in her chest that translated straight through to her lover's own.

Smug, the elf too leaned back to eye the rapture on her beautiful face, expecting to find a very dilated pair of sapphire eyes only –

to be met by a blazing liquid gold instead.

Alarm flashed over Legolas' fair features, his hands tightening almost painfully on the young woman's thighs. And immediately she sobered, all ripples of the passionate air between them fizzling in an instant.

"Cin chent, Iz! Ci … barn?" (Your eyes, Iz! Are you . . . safe?) he whispered urgently, his own eyes roving her face in earnest.

Fear gripped Isobel's heart tightly at the soft words. Only now could she recognise the sparks of electricity that was quite literally crackling in her fingertips in synchronicity to the flush of ardour racing through her veins. Somewhere along the line their passions had countered her self-control, rendering her magic a very real threat of untamed chaos. She stiffened immediately, her heated body going rigid with the effort it took to reign in the tsunami rapidly gaining momentum inside.

Only once had she lost control. Only once had she unwittingly unleashed the full force of her abilities. And that had culminated in the worst day of her life.

Legolas could depict the moment terror came for his lover – that sharp dilation of her already expanded pupils and the erratic thumping that began bounding on the side of her neck. She was on the verge of losing control, he could see it. And while this did not frighten him, it also did nothing to temper the stubbornly stiff shaft still nestled between her thighs. Pain from unrequited yearning had begun to pool in his loins in ludicrous contradiction to the warning now filling the air.

He knew the woman in his arms was struggling to regain her composure. She was tense in his embrace, taut even, as coiled as a cobra on the verge of striking. He could feel the resistance mounting in her wiry muscles, the shiver of rebellion amassing beneath her skin. Even her ribs had fused solid by extension; a unified, all-consuming war against herself that had stripped all but the fundamentals from conscious thought. For a moment that itself was terrifying. Not the threat of her magic but the innate stillness that had come for her, as pervasive as one of her petrifying charms. There was not an ounce of movement from Isobel. Nothing. Not a lash that blinked nor a breath inhaled. She was as frozen in his arms as the banks of the Forest River on a frosty winter's morn.

And with little to do but to continue to hold her upright, Legolas' face was suddenly flush with an uncharacteristic level of humiliation. Never in his long life had he ever felt such things in relation to his body's reaction to an erotic stimulus. But he did now. Isobel was struggling quite literally to constrain what promised to be a frightful display of unparalleled power and he was … aroused?

The thought made him ill and he found himself surreptitiously adjusting his grip on her thighs so that their loins were no longer in contact. The sudden contradiction made his head spin and his face ignite as if he'd never actually been a willing participant in an act of mutual gratification but a perverted beast hellbent on debasing a beautiful creature. And as the minutes stretched he began to feel weak for his continued inability to tame the rampant member in his leggings; the one aching to be tightly gloved in the channel of the witch above with almost maddening obsession; the one that would hear no reason.

Just as suddenly Isobel was awash with life again, drawing in a deep breath that seemed to rattle the uncertainty around them. And he was lowering her limbs to the dust before taking a bashful step away, more ashamed than he was anything else.

For a long moment neither seemed to know what to say. Legolas knew his face was an incriminating shade of scarlet, but he tried his darnedest not to let it show in his expression as he surveyed his lover's bowed head. Isobel seemed reluctant to look at him. And for a moment the elf prince was awash with feelings of guilt for the scandalous circumstance he'd forced upon her. But it was only when she spoke, only when he heard the sorrow poised in her tone that it finally dawned on him that it wasn't him she was ashamed of.

"I'm so sor – " she whispered but he cut her off by ducking low to capture her lips in a searing kiss that seemed to fuse the regretful words to her tongue.

He was gentle when he tasted her this time. Not tentative but tender. Lips slowly moving against hers with such affection as if to convey the words fit to burst from his chest.

I love you. I am not afraid. Together we can do anything.

And the sobering young woman could do nothing but drink it all in, drawing within herself with each caress of his tongue and each magnificent pass of his mouth as if he were more substantial than the life blood of the earth.

Finally they parted and Isobel swallowed thickly the rosy tinge now painting her cheeks, her gaze once again finding the space between their feet. Though Legolas like to think it was with a different connotation this time.

"What is this place?" she asked timidly, lifting her gaze for but a moment to gesture to the foreboding mountain behind them.

"'Tis the Dimholt road. It leads to the Path of the Dead. That is where Aragorn – and I – must go."

For a moment the softly spoken words were only confounding and Isobel felt herself drawn to the expression of the elf that for all intents and purposes only appeared shy. It seemed an impossible thing to entertain their parting so soon after reuniting that she struggled to rationalise the sentiment as if it were more a fallacy than it were fact. The longer she held on to it, the more it affirmed. And when she next spoke it was with far more certainty than he had heard from her in the longest while.

"Where we will go," she corrected stubbornly, earning a beautific smile from her lover.

oOOOo

Aragorn appeared through the darkness just as his companions had finished readying themselves.

"And where do you think you're going?" interrogated Isobel as she stepped in front of him holding tightly the reigns of very flighty Arroch.

Grey eyes reflected no surprise when he replied.

"Not this time, dear friend," he beseeched with a soft shake of his long hair, earning himself a frown.

And for a moment his female companion seemed not to know what to say. Something had tugged inside with the ranger's melancholy tone; something that pulled incessantly like the strings of a ruthless marionette. Before long an unfathomable level of empathy had breached the surface of her expression and she was reaching forth with a sorrow laden palm.

To an outsider the shift in the dynamic between the two would have undoubtedly seemed obscure. But to the pair who knew each other as intimately as siblings it was nothing of the sort. The true meaning of empathy could only be born of a cherished relationship; compassion, the consequence of a lifelong commitment to one another. Isobel saw the steps of his ancestors Aragorn was reluctant to tread, just as he saw the categorical fear with which she regarded herself.

Silently emerging from behind the pair Legolas appeared with Arod in tow, called by the deafening silence that to his attuned ears seemed to speak volumes of their closeness. There was no sense of jealousy when he watched their palms unite, only affection for the bond that continued to coalesce the three of them. He had not the sense of when such a thing had formed. Only that through innumerable moments through their friendship each had nurtured each other as effectively as kindling on a dying fire, stoking the flames of their pact and bolstering their self-esteem.

"Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of women," the elf teased warmly, only breaking the intimacy to join his palm with theirs.

With a large hand still clasped to a smaller one the ranger could only nod his acquiescence, grateful for renewed companionship that would see him not tread alone. And it was with heady steps that he led them through the mist and deep down the eerie path.

The atmosphere had changed starkly the moment the trio passed through the stony gateway. In an instant all warmth and comfort, however immeasurable, seemingly ceased to be. It was as if every ounce of hope had been sucked straight out of the air, leaving only ominous dread in it's wake. The sharp stony walls closed in around them, sealing the trio in a heaviness so dense it seemed to compress the air straight from their lungs. Gloom hung like thickets from the low lying branches that marred the mountain side, devoid of all forms of life bar the interlopers and their steeds. Gradually the companions felt hope slip away the deeper the traipsed through the accursed pass.

But for Isobel there was something else too. From the moment she had entered the macabre place a tension had settled in the depths of her chest. It were as if someone had slithered their hand between her ribs and seized her very heart, squeezing infinitesimally around the muscular organ with every step they took. It was enough to quicken her breaths and set her jaw as her resolve began to waver.

oOOOo

Silence surrounded the companions along with the gloom as they sat circled around their campfire. Though it had felt much longer, they had been travelling for just over a day now. But unbeknownst to the trio something else had accompanied them into the accursed path, something nameless that now sat between them as they stared wordlessly into a blazing fire. A fourth companion as it were. An entity whose sole purpose was to leech everything good from the world; a black hole of despair. And none felt it more prominently than Isobel.

Initially she'd thought she'd imagined the tightness that had followed them into this nameless place of middle earth. As it continued to constrict tighter and tighter the further they trekked she began to wonder if it were a product of her own anxiety. But here and now with her rump aching from the arduous trek and the unforgiving log she now found herself seated upon, she knew without a doubt that something more sinister was at play.

The passage of time and space through this ancient part of the world had rendered breathing a difficulty, leaving her with far more than a tight band around her chest. Something else had latched around her. It could have almost been a corset, were the scenario less macabre. But it was not. And as she reached a shaky hand up to rub her aching sternum yet another stuttered half-breath shuddered through her lungs. Unfathomably she could feel the thing tapping into the last of her waning reserves. She could feel it sapping her strength with each passing moment as if a fell beast were lapping at the finite pool of the resilience that kept her magic at bay. Owing to the arduous path she had trekked so far there was already so very little left in her well to begin with. And once it was gone ….

… the prospect was terrifying to consider. And the duo seated beside her were completely ignorant to the threat of unparalleled chaos gradually beginning to simmer inside.

Seated beside her, Aragorn was very clearly lost to the infinite number of permeations they might encounter between the present and the white city. But Isobel couldn't have truthfully said what came for Legolas. Only that he too was stunted and unblinking. And with what little was left of the capacity for thought she wondered if he were drowning in thoughts of his kin. She could only hope with the kind of naïve flippancy that accompanies suffering that war had not yet reached the borders of the woodland city she adored.

Finally, she couldn't stand the silence any longer and spoke up with a kind of fearful rhetoric. "I need to tell you something," she murmured softly, though around the tightness it came out more a wheeze.

Isobel's gaze dropped to the hands clasped in her lap as two pairs of curious eyes were torn from their distraction to eye the witch they only now realised had handicapped breathing.

"I – " she began shakily but had to pause to choke on the thickness that had suddenly formed on her tongue. "I am losing control."

Her voice was barely a whisper amongst the gloom but the pair heard perfectly. Impossibly the air seemed to solidify around them. Neither the elf nor the ranger dared to breathe as they contemplated the young woman's pained admission.

"There's something out here," she implored, lifting her face to beg them with wide, terrified eyes. "I feel it growing inside me. Something has its clutches around my heart. I ... I am not sure how much longer I can hold on."

Anguished tears began to streak down her cheeks, hot and heavy. Moist eyes closed as she lifted an unsteady hand to swipe them away.

"It is not safe for you. You need to get away from me," she begged softly.

"No," came the forceful reply of the ranger, interrupting the melancholy train of thought with the squeeze of a hand on her bicep.

Grey eyes collided with her own, pinning the encumbered young woman with a promise she could only begin to recognise.

"I will not leave you, Dúlinnig. I believe in you. As I always have." The ranger's words were as fierce as the steel in his gaze; bound with permanence and solidarity. Switching now as he draw her small body closer with an arm around her shoulders, the deep timbre of his voice softened as vulnerability crept onto the palate of his tongue. "I cannot do this without you."

Oddly, Isobel felt the conviction of those words far more than she heard it. They rattled against her frame as a shudder of unbidden expectation, imparting a permanence that seemed to reverberate within. The meaning was as strange as it was rejuvenating and she felt the slightest puff of wind beneath her ever-deflating sails.

"You don't know that of me," the lesser part of her mind argued aloud. "You know I have lost control before."

But it was Legolas who spoke next, gracefully interjecting before whatever words of dejection were next to fall from her lips.

"That was very different," he reassured, reaching over to seal a pair of frigid fingers in his hands. Bright blue eyes raged with all the things that had flared inside him with the contact of their skin. The light, the adoration, the love; all of it categorically formed in a gale of overpowering emotions, shining like a blinding beacon upon the one still new to recognising them for what they were.

But despite the searing heat affection, doubt thundered through Isobel's veins as a stampede of regret.

"Was it?" came the reply.

oOOOo

Nine years earlier.

For most women this was the happiest day of their lives. She knew many who had whiled away the hours of their childhood dreaming of the romance, the beauty, and the happiness that was to beget this next chapter of their lives.

But Isobel was not most women. In fact, she was barely a woman at all. At fifteen, the gentle swell of her breasts had only just begun to bloom. She could hardly say that she was ready for this day. In fact in the girl's mind there was still so much of life she wanted to discover before settling into the seriousness of adulthood. But alas the last remnants of her childhood were to be robbed from her. And against her will. For it was not hope that swelled in her heart at the promise of today but dread; a deep, unrelenting terror at the prospect of what was to come. Sure her groom-to-be was handsome enough with the soft waves of his brown hair and his fair features, but it was his reputation that had Isobel's blood coursing stone cold through her body.

Dutifully, the girl allowed her maids to beautify her; draping her in a delicate lace gown, twisting her long dark curls in an elegant nest behind her head, and placing a gold circlet on the crown of her head. For certain, she was beautiful this day, save for the hint of panic that stained her gaze.

The wedding ceremony was flawless. With an expertise that only comes from a lifetime of nobility, Isobel fulfilled the role of the blushing bride to the complete ignorance of those around her. She was magnificent in her facade. Only once did her careful mask slip that evening. Only once did the terror in her heart consume her features to the rapturous glee of her new husband. As their guests had busied themselves with the opulent feast before them he had turned to her. Baring his pointed teeth that gleamed like a wolf's in the low light, a malevolence had blackened his eyes from something unseen. The sight alone had gripped the young girl with a terror like never before. But when she next blinked and well before she could scream, it was gone and she had been left with the remembrance of an impossible dichotomy that burned acidly like the eve's finest sweet wines.

Somewhere near midnight Isobel's new husband had whisked her away. Dragging her with a firm grip on her arm that allowed no room for protest, he led her through a network of ever darkening corridors. The mask had fallen from his face entirely by the time they reached their destination and without so much as a word she was shoved callously through a door where she was met by a bed, a candlelit room and half a dozen hungry men.

There was no moment for fear to claim her before a sharp pain slammed into the back of her head and she was falling with no way to halt her momentum. Stars danced before her eyes when a shoulder collided with the ground, giving no time for a dulled mind to register the moment the circlet fell from her brow with a clatter. Vision, hearing, the blow to her cranium had numbed her senses as if she were underwater so much so that she didn't have the presence of mind to protest when forceful hands gripped her arms tightly.

With their eye on the prize the group gleefully dragged the dazed girl over to the bed, tossing her face down upon it as aggressively as they could muster. None present could have said how this small girl had slighted them. Only that they had been privy to some truly disturbing rumours. It was said that a great sorcery had created an unnatural fertility to the lands of her duchy. And that this secret wickedness had prospered the Arnualt family's riches, leaving those unfortunate enough to not be privy starved and trampled in their wake.

Whatever the truth, it mattered little to those whose souls suckled willingly from the teat of hate. They would claim, they would shackle, they would conquer; as was their unending thirst.

The mattress was hardly a welcome reunion when it met Isobel's face. But it was a little bit sobering. Consciousness dredged itself to the forefront of her mind just as a several pairs of strong hands clamped down like vices upon her flank. A terror unlike any other came for her with the contact, gripping her heart with blinding force. Panic began to pulse through her veins like the blast of a geyser, painting an innocent mind with it's vengeful prospects. Soon she was shaking like a leaf, whatever sounds of forgiveness breaking like a strangled whimper in the ears of the merciless. And they thrived on it. The resultant surge of testosterone was as palpable as the bruising grips on her limbs, throbbing with a thirst that seemed to intensify with each passing moment.

Without warning the bed shifted again as the heavy form of her husband settled himself beside her. His warm face neared her own contrasting starkly with the cold grope of a hand on her wounded scalp. Just as suddenly the fingers tightened and her head was wrenched up by the fragile strands of her hair to meet a pair of the blackest eyes she'd ever faced. There was no shred of warmth in the hard gaze that appraised her; only a cold malice that twisted a handsome face into an ugly sneer. The cold bite of steel nipped at her throat and in that moment every thought of survival fled while the man who had promised to protect her hurled words of spite in her face.

"My turn next, whore," he spat, pressing the blade harder against her skin.

Ashamed, tears of helplessness began to streak down Isobel's cheeks against her will just as she felt the heat of blood trickle down her neck. Suddenly there was an additional weight behind her, much to the delight of the men pinning her down. A palpable excitement filled the air as heady as the explosion of confetti that had doused her earlier. But terror only gripped Isobel's heart tighter in a vice that seemed to choke the life from it's chambers, provoked by the clang of a belt hitting the hard stone floor. Rough hands scratched the smooth skin of her thighs while lifting the hem of her absurdly large dress dress, the press of the weight behind her driving her deeper into the mattress that clung to her trembling frame like glue.

And when a turgid and throbbing length probed searchingly into the back of her thighs the panic swelled beyond anything she'd ever experienced, ripping excruciatingly from deep within to erupt extrinsically with such violence that for a moment Isobel couldn't discern if her ribs had cleaved clean in two like a gutted peach. At the same time the room exploded in hailstorm of agonised screams and a blinding flash of light as bright as a bolt of lightning, before quickly rescinding to darkness and deadly silence once more.

Dazed and confused by the sudden absence of restraint, Isobel rose on shaky legs to find herself alone, save for the feathering of ashes that flitted serenely to the floor. Her tormentors were gone. Obliterated. Nothing left but the acrid stench of burning and the shocking remnants of charred flesh.

Horrified, Isobel did not react when the door burst open to reveal her new father-in-law and his guards who had been drawn by the anguished sounds of screaming. It only took a second for the warlord to absorb the sight of his incinerated son before a merciless hate coloured his face and he was waving a disdainful hand in her direction. The guards pounced on her meek frame without so much as a word, striking her hard with a gloved hand across her flawlessly smooth face.

They beat her for hours. They beat her until she was black and blue with a voice so hoarse she could no longer illicit any further screams. The sounds of her agony had been a symphony in the warlord's ears while he lingered in the room doorway, sipping neatly upon his darkest brew of whiskey.

When it was over all six soldiers had passed out from exhaustion, slumped in various positions along the room to leave a young girl bleeding out alone on a cold stone floor. Silent sobs ripped their way through bloodless lips as she took a shaky kind of stock of her injuries. Agony didn't begin to encompass all the things she felt in that moment. Pain was a trifle thing in comparison to the shame, horror and scars she now bore like the finely tailored fabric of a second skin. So little remained of the young beauty who had entered that room with a kind of childlike hesitancy; so little but a broken body and a fragment of humanity.

She was trembling something fierce when she unfurled a bruised hand, indented fingernails scraping on the rough flooring as she reached for the last thing within her control. The metallic taste of courage was all that filled her mouth when she finally mustered the strength to stagger for the door, headed for the minuscule glimmer of hope that shone like diamonds on an otherwise colourless night.

It was amongst the twisted roots of a particularly large tree that Legolas had found her unconscious form. Inexplicably this night had been darker than any in his memory, the stars veiled as if hiding from some awful prospect that remained elusive. He and Aragorn had been out hunting, scouring the fertile lands for game to fill their bellies on an otherwise empty eve. Til now the elf prince hadn't been able to explain the unsettling feeling that had come for him. Only that it had seeped into the marrow of his bones, just as it kept his finely tuned senses lasssoed in the distance for any sign of trouble.

It had been a fluke, really, that he had seen her at all. The slightest flutter of a reminiscently white fabric amongst a sea of phthalo green underbrush as dark the night sky. The oddity of it had drawn his attention like a moth to a flame. And before the elf prince knew it he was crouched over the twisted form of a young woman nestled in the roots of an old elm tree. Legolas couldn't help the soft cry that escaped his lips when he soothed a sweaty tangle of hair away to reveal a purple and swollen face. Just as he was powerless to halt himself when he swept her slight form up in his arms. A kind of solemn empathy clouded every step as he urged himself towards his companion, fuelled by a worry he couldn't quite rationalise.

Aragorn had been startled by the sudden appearance of the elf from between the shadows. And even more so by the delicate package cradled so tenderly in his arms. But before he could question the strange appearance a nearby shout diverted their attention. Only now were the flickers of flaming torches appearing like dot through the trees. It didn't take sensitive elven ears to hear the shouts of vindictive voices trading between one another like blows in a sparing match. And it was immediately apparent to the pair of travellers that these men were searching for the young woman cradled between them. A look of silent agreement passed between the friends, a wordless commitment as sincere as it was unbreakable.

They sought refuge in an abandoned house nearby. Wordlessly the pair inspected the injuries of their refugee with tender fingers. Mercifully her hurts were largely superficial, save for a few cracked ribs. How she'd survived such a callous beating was beyond the elf as he now sat in watch over the broken form. The ranger had long retreated in seek of much needed rest, leaving Legolas to his silent rumination. Beneath the swollen eye, split lip and ugly welts across her fair cheeks, the elf surmised that the young lady might once have been beautiful. With pained regret, he wondered if she ever would be again as although her injuries would heal, the scars on her heart would unquestionably plague her for many years to come.

He turned now with pity in his eyes as soft cries broke from the girl's lips – the only sounds of life she'd yet to utter. Anguish ripped through her form as the young lady curled in on herself in response to some unseen horror. Unsure, Legolas watched as pained breathing turned into panicked gasps as the nightmare gripped her further. Another scream shattered through the darkened room like broken glass and the elf rose quickly to comfort his ward. With gentle hands he shook the girl's shoulder just as Aragorn burst through the door, sword held ready in defence against the perceived assailant.

So it surprised the elf when a hard slap smacked his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" the now awake girl shrieked, launching herself away from the bed to press her small frame into the corner of the room.

Panicked eyes flitted around the room as the shocked companions turned to face her. But it was only with concern in their gazes that the pair appraised the desolate form. Congealed blood glued her brown hair in a tangled mess. The dress they once supposed was white was now torn in several places and marred with smatterings of brown and red. Bruises covered almost all of her exposed skin and one blacked eye was nearly entirely swollen closed. The trembling girl crouched, pressing herself further into the recess as if wishing against all odds it would swallow her whole. Terrified eyes of a rich golden hue met were darting furiously from here to there, her breaths coming out in frightened sprints as unbidden tears began to streak down her dirty face.

"We mean you no harm," the ranger said softly, lowering the sword and raising a hand in what was meant to be a gesture of peace.

But the girl only began to cry harder, wracking sobs breaking through her injured lungs with renewed desperation in a way that the elf prince was sure would hurt. But there seemed no placating the frightened girl stuttering about like a cornered dove. Indeed, as the seconds waned she seemed increasingly on the verge of panic. Shockingly, a soft glow began to exude from the small hands pressed against the walls, alighting the timber as if she were cradling a pair of small suns. Soon tendrils of liquid gold began to snake out like tree roots from the tips of her filthy fingers, expanding along the walls like the effervescent vines of a passion fruit. Legolas and Aragorn could only watch, powerless, as the roots grew and grew, extending far and long across the rough, wooden surface. Disturbingly, everything those threads touched became impermeable as they encased object after object, turning them into solid gold.

The elf and the ranger could only watch on, horrified, as threads of golden vines wrapped themselves around the bed frame. In seconds it was coated in a liquid glow so very reminiscent of the mithril deposits beneath the Misty Mountains before it cooled completely, transforming the softness into an unyielding golden lump.

It was then a sudden realisation dawned on the elf. It was not them the girl was afraid of. It was herself.

"Please, I can't control it," she begged through eyes rife with the threat of panic.

A stony stare hardened in the elf's eyes, one that was far less than forgiving but much more understanding.

"Yes, you can," he said with an indisputable conviction.

It was easy for the elf prince to ensnare the girl's gaze with his own as he approached the shaking form. Searching so fanatically for some tangible ounce of trust to hold onto her eyes naturally gravitated towards his. Again he was taken aback by the shocking intensity of the gold of her irises. But he did not allow his steps to falter as he crept towards her one small step at a time.

The tendrils from her hands began to streak across the room with more fervour the closer he came, the panic in her eyes increasing tenfold as if impending doom were nearing and not an ethereal being with pointy ears. So Legolas began to whisper to her in Sindarin, hoping that the magical lilt of his native language could soothe her aching soul. It did not and the girl began to shake her head vehemently in protest while her frame shook like a like a barely tethered leaf in the wind.

He was but an arms reach away when she turned her head away, shame streaming hotly down her purple decorated cheeks. But there was only empathy in the elf's expression when he elevated her face with delicate fingers beneath her chin, his bright blue eyes searching hers with such possessive understanding the girl could not have turned away even if she wanted to. She shook uncontrollably in his grasp and it wasn't long before Legolas felt the wetness of her distress begin to soak into the sleeve of his tunic. Still he held her, all while wordlessly bidding her to calm her mind.

The girl couldn't explain it. She did not recognise the male before her but the tenderness with which he held her struck through her fears like lightning, piercing with strength straight through to her broken heart. In seconds Isobel felt the terror slip from her shoulders like a satin sheath, sliding to the floor to pool innocuously at their feet. Engrossed, Legolas too was paralysed by the moment her hard, metal eyes cooled right before his vision, morphing from a heated liquid gold to a deep sapphire the moment her fears had been allayed. Though the vines no longer projected from the girl's fingers much of the room remained altered, permanently encased in golden hardness.

The elf was at a loss to explain it. The whole curious event. The young lady held such power within her; a power of unimaginable greatness that neither of the companions had ever witnessed before. Yet she was seemingly unable to wield it. Where had it come from? Where had she come from? And more importantly why was the elf seemingly able to hold his own power over her? But amongst all the questions, one thing was for certain; this delicate creature was very evidently in need of help.

The elf turned to meet the gaze of the ranger. Both setting their jaws with determination, a silent a pact seemed to pass between.

They would help her.

They would protect her.

For as long as she needed them.