Nineteen years earlier.

"One! Two! Three! Fo –"

The shrill pitch of her sister's voice was very quickly swallowed by the thick layers of brush that wove along the path, fading into the distance beneath the thrill that had filled Isobel's veins. They were playing a game of 'Hide and Seek' and it was Rosemary's turn as seeker. Isobel had darted off as wily as a fox as soon as the older girl had begun counting, disappearing between the trees as tall as monoliths that bordered the forests around their home.

The girls were fortunate to have been brought up in a rich environment; a duchy, no less, whose fertile earth lay key to it's prosperity. Enviably, greenery flourished here as if the effervescent spring that networked deep beneath the ground were actually a tap to the heart of mother nature herself. Trees grew as tall as empires, bushes, shrubbery and vines painting much of the landscape as if canvassed fanatically by an artist's brush. Much of the landscape had been relegated to farms so vivacious they were responsible for providing the majority of the fresh produce for the nearby white city.

Vitality was more than a mantra here, it was a way of life. And for the young pair of duchesses currently immersed in a silly childhood game, the concept of 'hardship' was no more a word in a fairy tale than it was a reality.

Being only five Isobel was hardly an expert at 'hide and seek.' Indeed, despite the thickness of the trees and the unending number of possibilities it was often her the delighted cackles of her laughter that saw her found within a few minutes of fleeing, time and time again.

But this time, she had promised herself, was going to different.

The young girl had gone deeper into the forest this time than she ever had before. So deep that the low lying branches of the elm trees had begun to form a thick canopy overhead, shielding the sky and what was left of the sun's adoring rays from view. Soon the shrubbery began to weave a tighter net, forming barrier after barrier that was increasingly becoming harder to traverse. But still the young girl pressed onward, the musical lilt of her glee echoing around her as she fled.

Bright sapphire eyes darted rapturously around, searching for a hiding place so cunning that it might ensure her at least another few minutes of solitude before her sister found her. She had just spied a particularly luscious fern whose long leaves had curled tightly into ringlets that she was pushing aside the branches to create a space for herself without another thought.

Only something curious caught her attention the minute she had cast aside the limbs and the sounds of euphoria died in her throat, failing to stillness in the same way as the wind now sat upon the breeze. A thicket of blackberries lay beyond whose thorns grew as wickedly as the needles her mother used for quilting. But it was what lay beyond that had snared the small girl's attentions; a brightly glowing ball of light that seemed as surreal as it was entirely quizzical.

All remembrances of their game had flitted away the minute Isobel had caught sight of the strange object. And without another thought she was pushing through the brambles to get a better look. So possessed by intention, she didn't feel the moment the thorns pierced the skin of her palm when she cast aside a particularly knotted vine, nor did she register the skin of her small legs shredding when she passed, leaving bright red welts along the flesh as if she'd warred with a particularly quarrelsome cat. Indeed, her young mind had been blinded by the strange substance, her neurons filtering out all other stimulus that wasn't immediately associated with the bright purple light.

The girl's small mouth could only gasp when she finally argued her way before the substance, confused by the notion that something that appeared to be made of pure light could appear so liquid-like. Violet tendrils swirled around a ball-like object that seemed to hover impossibly in mid-air. But even they seemed to leech directly from the ground, as if drawn from the very fabric of the earth itself. Isobel could only watch mesmerised as the tendrils danced around one another, captivated by the display that was as bizarre as it was inexplicable.

She couldn't help the moment she reached out with a small hand, tugged forth by the notion that it might not appear as wet as it seemed. Only Isobel wasn't afforded a moment to register the texture of the strange sight when she finally made contact; it scattered sideways in an instant, fleeing from her fingertips as if polarly repelled to dive straight into the orifices of her face.

The small girl baulked on the moment the violet light thrust it's way up her nostrils like a pair of determined fingers. And she choked on the sensation of it erupting through her agape mouth where it forced it's way down her oesophagus as if she'd just swallowed a particularly unfortunate gathering of flies. Curiously it didn't taste like anything on her tongue, but the moment it hit her stomach something warm ignited within. Heat spread along her limbs enveloping the small appendages like the vines of the blackberry she'd just forced herself between. And suddenly her own hands were glowing with a vibrancy that hadn't been there before.

The young girl could only turn her spread-eagled fingers over and over in wonder, enraptured by the power that seemed to effervesce from within. Ominously golden, as Isobel stared at the nails that suddenly seemed to be encased with the purity of an element, she somehow intuitively knew that she was now a vessel for something wondrous that had not been seen in an age.

A scoff sounded from behind, one that immediately tore the young girl from her distraction. And she was whirling quickly on her heel, thrusting her hands behind her back to shield the secret she didn't wish to share.

"Iiizzzeeee," her sister whined in that annoying way that only children are capable of. "You dolt! Why can't you understand the purpose of 'hiding?'"

The younger girl's face immediately ignited with a blush that had nothing to do with ruining their game and everything to do with having narrowly escaped being caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

But what the selfish younger sibling didn't realise in that moment was that her sister wasn't even capable of seeing the strange kind of purple magic, let alone wielding it.

She hadn't been born to.

oOOOo

Isobel should have felt lighter than she had in aeons following her encounter in the kings chambers. By rights there should had been an appreciable change in the demeanour of the Rohirrim towards her since the battle and their apparent acceptance of her strangeness in the great hall. But like all good things borne of the heat of an emotional moment, the people of Rohan went back to treating her like a leper the very next day.

Indeed, most refused to even acknowledge the young woman with the unparalleled abilities as she strode through the courtyards, preferring to skirt a wide berth around the witch when they saw her approaching. Even those whose lives she restored, those into whom she'd poured the very essence of herself out on the plains Helms Deep, leaving herself vulnerable and raggedly thin, chose only to fix her with a kind of guarded mistrust; their eyes so full of suspicion that it made the young woman feel vile from the pit of her stomach all the way through to the marrow of her bones.

And she withdrew, closing in on herself as a sunflower upon conclusion of a brief but bright, sunny day only to again bask in the perpetual nighttime that seemed so uniquely hers. It broke the fellowship's hearts to see her so destitute, robbed of even the merest good graces so fundamentally entitled by everyone else apart from herself. Even Gimli's apparent heart of stone cracked in the face of the witch who could find no acceptance outside of their little rabble of travellers, in complete contradiction to how much of herself she continued to sacrifice.

To them she was poignantly beautiful; the most enchanting creature to grace middle earth but whose life was so eternally blanketed by an unending amount of grief. It all just seemed so unfair, given the sacrifices she'd made to ensure their safety and well-being.

But of all, none were more burdened than the elf prince and the ranger, who had known the young woman for many, many years. Time and time again they had seen her rise above the rest with such auspicious grace that under normal circumstances, filled them both with immense pride for the wondrous and gentle creature she was.

But here and now, she was a wallflower; the finest, bedazzling jewel whose magnificence was gradually beginning to wane beneath the heavy weight of scorn.

Mercifully, the trip back to Edoras had been uneventful. Isobel and her companions had assisted where they could, carrying heavy loads on long days and treating the remaining wounded. As they traipsed conversation had flowed freely between the group, who these days also included both Eowyn and Eomer. They chatted lightheartedly for hours, trading stories of their kin and happier times past. It was in these small moments when he looked into Isobel's rich, blue eyes that Legolas almost thought he could see the barest glimmer the formerly radiant young witch peaking out from beneath the cloud of despair that hung perpetually over her head.

But that was all it was; a glimmer – the tiniest shimmer of gold before it was tarnished with grime and neglect once again.

But as the days filled Isobel with purpose and at times relief, the nights themselves were endless torment for the desperately lonely young woman. Haunting images would float behind Isobel's eyelids every time she closed her eyes. Snarling uruks, headless corpses, severed limbs and agonised faces, and most often not from battle, often made sleep an impossibility.

On one such night – the night before they arrived back at Edoras – the young woman woke with a terrified start. Unconsciously she sat bolt upright, her mouth open in a silent scream before the nightmare began to rescind and cold, hard reality settled firmly back into place. She clutched her knees to her chest trying to slow her sprinting heart, dimly registering that she was drenched in a cold sweat. She'd been dreaming about the battle again. Only this time the brutal faces of uruks were replaced with the brutal faces of her friends. In the haze of her subconscious, Legolas' handsome features had contorted with a level of savagery she'd never seen before. He hurled hateful words that had pierced her through the heart better than any arrow could have, all the while striking unrelentingly at her with the sword of the enemy.

The betrayal was swiftly replaced by nausea when the young woman looked over at the peaceful form of her sleeping friend, his flawlessly handsome features glowing so serenely in the low light of the moon that it set the sardonic portion of her mind alight with self-flagellation.

Legolas deserved so much better than a friend like her.

And she was closing her eyes, silently drowning in a well of pity so deep it threatened to swallow her whole.

Pressing a hand to her face, the young woman took a few raggedy breaths, allowing the serenity of the darkness to chase the cruel images from her mind, reminding herself that it was just a dream, even if it had felt more akin to waking nightmare. Slowly, slowly, the nausea began to retreat, but not the isolation; that arrow remained as true tonight as it ever was.

Mercifully, the camp was still silent, save for the soft snoring of a nearby dwarf, so pronounced it ruffled his thick, red beard. And she couldn't help the small twitch of affection that played on the corner of her mouth; an overdue reminder that no matter how much starkly she may feel it, in truth she was never really alone.

Unbidden, tears crept to the corner of her eyes, a form of gratitude that spoke of far more than she could ever express. And as she cast her misty vision from one companion to the other it was only now she realised that Aragorn's nearby bed roll lay empty. Concerned, blue eyes immediately darted to the surrounds, searching in yearning for the shadow of her friend.

She found him seated on a nearby rocky outcrop, quietly surveying the landscape. Feeling the absence of further rest, the young woman rose on shaky legs to join her companion in his solitude. Silently she sat down beside the ranger, her long chestnut hair falling around her face as she picked at the grass nearby.

"Foeg lór?" (Bad dream?) Aragorn finally asked, broken from his own revere.

But Isobel's mouth only thinned, her gaze remaining resolutely trained on the broken stem she was twirling between her fingers and firmly away from the concern radiating from her friend's irises.

"Treneri- nin -o ha," (Tell me of it) the ranger pressed, his grey eyes roving her face intently. To those who did not know her, the young woman's face was a smooth mask of impassiveness; an impenetrable shield behind which she hid her true self and the greatest and most loathsome feelings of her heart.

But Aragorn knew her far better.

With sadness he recognised that the darkness had returned to her demeanour once more and he let out a sigh, reaching out to pluck his own stem from the plains. Not for the first time the ranger reflected on how unjust it was for such a wondrous creature to be burdened as she was. But only in the presence of strangers did this terror consume Isobel so. When they were alone or with Legolas she was one of the most loving, warm and humorous people he knew. A sincere, gracious and generous individual, he adored her and the friendship they shared.

Tonight however, Isobel's face held the same look that it had on the night that Aragorn had found her – a soul-consuming worthlessness – that made the ranger, himself, feel equally wretched for his inability to banish the abhorrent expression from her features forever.

"Baw," (no) the young woman said with a wry smile that didn't quite reflect in her eyes. Lifting her head she met the ranger's appraisal with a careful expression of her own. "Cin erui." (you first.)

Filled with solemnity Isobel's expression did not change as she watched the ranger's own level of melancholy crease the corner of his eyes. Scruffy brown hair flicked about his shoulders as he too slipped beneath the shadows of unwanted burdens. For a long while, the silence between them stretched endlessly, seeming to permeate through the serene night air as thick as sludge in the wind. Then finally a soft voice broke the atmosphere –

"Increasingly I cannot help but think that the fate of this war might depend on me fulfilling a destiny I do not want."

A resigned sigh escaped Isobel's lips, one that she was all too familiar with as she reflected on her friend's admission. Next to him her own head bowed again, the load of solidarity far too weighty for her already troubled shoulders. Smooth chestnut hair danced before her vision, hiding the moisture that had unwillingly gathered in the corner of her eyes.

To her it seemed reprehensible that the ranger should be condemned to carry the fate of the future; an inconceivable task that made her own struggles with acceptance pale by comparison. Being a close confidant she was very familiar with the sacrifices her friend had made to ensure the safety of herself and their fellowship thus far. Body, mind and most notably, his heart, which he had left behind cradled in the grasp of an elf maiden he didn't know if he would ever see again.

Suddenly Isobel felt fickle for her own selfish concerns that were far too trivial to even be compared. And she was struggling to swallow down the the bitter, hard lump that had formed in the back of her throat, her tongue suddenly feeling leaden with the irrefutable truth that followed.

"Whatever happens, I will follow you to the end," she whispered thickly, hoping that the sincerity of her words would mask the waver of her voice.

"Thank-you," the ranger replied softly, his grey eyes shining with a gratitude he didn't think he could express otherwise as he lifted them to meet her own sapphire ones.

But the sentiment had the opposite effect that he'd intended and the ranger watched, dismayed, as the young woman visibly flinched, her expression floundering for a moment in a ratty attempt to withdraw. And for a moment the ranger's mind unwittingly likened his young companion to a startled bird, one foolish enough to venture too close to a brightly, glaring sun.

Again the ranger sighed heavily, saddened by the prospect that his dear friend's gentle heart was finally beginning to wither. Carefully he reached out to snare a shaky hand in his fingers, sealing it tightly in a warm grasp that seemed to promise far more than the obvious. Isobel audibly gasped when Aragorn lifted the cold digits to his lips, never tearing his eyes away from her face as he placed a delicate kiss upon the smooth skin. The expression she turned on him was one of pure shock, like a frightened doe cornered in the bright light of a hunter's lantern. Dark pupils were as wide a saucers above a mouth that flailed like an ungainly fish.

And wryly again the ranger was so poetically reminded of why he given the young woman her elvish nickname in the first place – Dúlinnig – little nightingale. For that's what she resembled in these moments. Throughout various cultures and histories of middle earth the symbolism of a nightingale always remained true; a symbol of purity and innocence. But one that equally seemed to carry with it such unending sorrow.

Isobel Arnault, the little nightingale; the one whose anguish would forever overshadow the greatest and most altruistic of her deeds. And as he cast his eyes over the hesitation written on every feature of her face, the ranger felt himself wholeheartedly wishing that it just wasn't so.

He could have drowned in the misery of the moment. Or saturated himself in the cacophony of all the things he really wanted to say. But instead he let a wry twinkle play in the corner of his grey eyes as he softly spoke his next words, "But now it's your turn," hoping to wrench her from the depths.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, it was with reluctance that Isobel turned her gaze to the darkened horizon once more before quietly replying, "I dreamed of you and Legolas finally realising that I am far more dangerous than I seem. In my dream the pedestal that you both hold me so high on crumbled beneath my feet and our friendship was no more."

Her words were a heartbroken whisper in the night as she uttered the deepest terror of her heart, trembling with the understanding that one day it might actually be so. And then she would be alone, truly alone, in every brutal definition of the word.

But the ranger's loyalty was not to be underestimated and he was placing an arm around her shoulders to pull her small frame against his own. It was against the softness of her hair as he held her that Aragorn offered his final words comfort. A paltry band-aid to a gaping, wounded heart.

"Never," he said with conviction, knowing deep down that this would never not be true.

oOOOo

It was after another half-day's journey before they finally arrived at Edoras. As the king and company ascended the stairs to the great hall they were met with the alarmed ramblings a soldier. The young man, having arrived shortly before they did, had been sent ahead to scout the road before the main company. With wide eyes that still beheld the terror of warfare he muttered that there had been reports of warg activity in the hills nearby. Upon the staircase all waited with baited breath for the king's judgement on the matter, none daring to venture forth where their battle weary souls would not allow. Still on the landing, the soldier's demeanour was rife with the stench of outright panic, as if all measure of courage and fortitude had quite literally been beaten out of him. And of course, it had, but a few nights ago upon the fields outside Helms Deep.

And so the king turned to address the marshal of the Riddermark instead.

"Eomer, gather your things and ride out to substantiate these claims. But be subtle! Our people are fragile and need no further cause for alarm," the king commanded.

As the monarch turned away his gaze landed upon Isobel and he paused in his swivel, as if to appraise something particularly elusive.

"Take the witch with you," he added thoughtfully, before ascending the final stairs.

oOOOo

After a moment's respite, Isobel and Eomer were armed and mounted before heading out in a north easterly direction. This time the young woman rode upon a powerful sable stallion named Arroch. She could feel the strength in his muscles as he carried gently her over the rough terrain. Though initially there was silence between the two warriors, it was not long before they'd lapsed in a frank, but comfortable conversation. Eomer could not explain it; unlike many of his fellow rohirrim who distanced themselves from the witch, there was something about the beautiful young woman that gave him no pause or hesitation.

Wryly he wondered if this were all part of the illusion; the bewitchment of mortal men through a flawless facade that hid beneath it a most hideous creature. That was the fairy tale told to him by his childhood nannies, at least. That witches were little more than scaly, green beasts with frozen hearts and evil intentions who sought to feast upon the weak-minded.

But as their bodies gently swayed together in unison, Eomer caught sight of the rapturous expression of peace gracing the fair woman's smooth face as she turned her ivory skin towards the sun. And he found himself immediately discounting half a lifetime's worth of warnings, entranced by the loveliness of her sculptured features and the impossible depth behind her irises.

As they trotted under the guise of surveying the landscape, Eomer spoke freely of the death of his father and of how, for a long time, the grief of losing his mother so shortly after had him consumed with a rage that could not be satiated save for the bloodlust of battle. He spoke of the shame he felt for his reckless misadventures during that time; of the pain he'd caused his uncle and sister and of how he knew that his untimely death would have entirely destroyed them. He explained, that it was what drove his deeds now; the unrelenting and selfless need to protect them in every way.

Isobel was struck by the poignant admission, touched by the closeness and honesty that had seen the marshal pouring out his greatest disappointments to her. It was true, and she'd noticed of course, that the blonde warrior seemed to have an inexplicable affinity for her. But given that most of his peers treated her like a pariah, she was at a loss to explain his desire for closeness.

Shamefully, the colder part of her mind, the one fuelled entirely by cruel thoughts and self-doubt, half wondered if his acceptance were all part of some guise to get her to open up, for whatever ill purpose.

But equally, the earnest side, the one that yearned for affection as powerfully as a flower crawling out from beneath a rock, headed for the sun, immediately banished the awful thoughts that threatened to send her fragile remains spiralling into complete madness.

In the end the smile she graced him with was as sympathetic as it was glorious and it immediately had an effect on the proud marshal's composure. Honoured, his returning grin was just as vibrant, his pearly white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as his heart stuttered waywardly like a inebriated troll in his chest.

"Pray tell, how did you come to be in company with an elf, a ranger and a dwarf?" he asked, finally uttering the curiosity that had plagued him since they'd met.

And in contrast to his own, Isobel's heart solidified in her chest; frozen beneath the weight of a torrid confession few had the privilege of knowing. But the look Eomer was casting in her direction was so unassuming that she immediately found it disarming, and words began tumbling forth before the more rational side of her brain could halt her tongue.

"I met Legolas and Aragorn many years before. Gimli and Merry, we recently picked up in Rivendell," she began as their horses lolloped slowly through the grass. "I was raised in a house of nobility near Dol Amroth. My father owned a great deal of land where a large number of settlers lived and farmed. The land was very fertile but always under contention for it's prosperity. After he and my mother were killed, my older brother became the earl of the region. I was fifteen when he bartered a truce with a nearby warlord who regularly laid siege to our lands. The agreement was they would cease all hostilities against our county and in exchange I was to marry his son."

It was here that the logical part of her mind finally caught up to the irrationality of her heart and in seconds the words themselves wedged in the back of her throat like a reluctant child. But the handsome blonde marshal only fixed her with an unassuming look and she found herself blindly stumbling forth once again.

"The warlord's son had a . . . reputation," she explained slowly, turning a sorrowful gaze towards the road at their feet and away from the warmth radiating from the man next to her. "For a grievous propensity for violence, particularly against women,"

Again she halted as deep anxiety and painful memories assaulted her memory and for a moment all she could see was the anguish and the agony of the night in question. At her softly spoken words, the friendliness had slid from his face and Eomer's hazel eyes had turned to fix her with a sharp stare, his face creasing into a tense expression of consternation.

"There were six of them on our wedding night," she continued softly, unable to meet his gaze. "They beat me for hours before they'd passed out drunk. Injured and dazed, I somehow managed to escape to the nearby forest. It was here that Aragorn and Legolas found me. They took me in, hid me and helped me to heal, in more ways than one. Later, they taught me to fight so that I would never have to feel so vulnerable again."

Never in his long life had the confident marshal found himself speechless. And yet here he was, seated powerfully atop his own horse and in the company of the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes upon and yet the words themselves seemed to fizzle on his tongue. Tied, that's how he felt. Hamstrung, even. As if he'd just been presented with the most gut-wrenching confession that had seen his own mind flayed in unified punishment. It seemed unfair, criminal even, that someone as young and as vulnerable as herself had been subjected to the most heinous of torments at the behest of lesser men. Outrage crackled in his lungs, sparking in his dark, amber eyes for a moment before he could constrain it.

"Valar, I am so sorry," he said, his blonde locks swaying as he shook his head, fighting hard against the feelings of disgust that accompanied the rage.

Beside him, Isobel felt herself deflate beneath the weight of the memory so few knew of. Shame didn't begin to encompass the things she'd felt in that moment. The word itself was wholly inadequate for the events that had followed shortly after – the things that even now, her wasted heart was far to encumbered to utter aloud. Mercifully, Eomer seemed not to notice her omission. And for that she was grateful, if only in that it allowed her yet another moment to cower in the shadows.

Desperately needing to divert the conversation, she fixed him with a wry smile as she said, "Don't be. Look how far I have come."

And with that, she nudged Arroch in the flank, spurring him in to a gallop.

"Race you to that hill!" She called over her shoulder, appearing playful despite the hurt still burning through her veins

A wicked grin broke out on the young marshal's face as he too urged his mount along. A blur of trees and bushes flew past them as they raced onward. And after a few intense minutes they slowed to a halt atop a tall hill, reigning in their now panting horses to exchange gleeful expressions.

Wordlessly, Isobel dismounted before walking to the edge of the cliff to survey the realm as behind her Eomer did the same. The sky was clear, a cloudless light blue, rewarding the young woman with an unhindered view of the thriving landscape. Reflectively, the she thought just how picturesque it was here and for a moment she breathed deep, allowing the serenity to soothe her aching soul. For miles and miles, as far as the eye could see, there were endless rolling hills of green dotted with tall, vibrant trees. There was an ease in the air, an honesty, that for the first time in a while made the young woman feel like she could find peace here, despite the unease still beating inside her chest like a relentless drum.

"It's truly beautiful here," she murmured softly as the marshal came up beside her.

And while Eomer nodded once in agreement, it was not the landscape that he was surveying as he replied.

"Yes, it is," he said, before clasping the back of the young woman's head with a gentle but firm hand and turning her to face him.

His lips had descended on her own before she could register. Stunned, all reason fled as she lost herself in the intensity of the kiss and the exquisite movements of his mouth on hers. In the desperate corners of her mind the inhibited young woman wanted nothing more than to deepen the motion, to lose herself further into the comforting affections of his embrace. But somewhere deeper in the recesses of an already damaged mind, the stark roughness of his beard scraping against her chin set the young woman's long-wasted heart racing with protest. Almost unconsciously firm hands found the coolness of his chest plate and she was pushing herself back in complete contradiction to the the protests of her own traitorous body.

"Stop," she begged in a pained whisper, her breath ghosting against the lips still hovering inches from her own.

Pushing harder on his chest she took a few unsteady steps away from him to cover her mouth with anxious fingers and wild eyes, rife with regret. An agony unlike anything else was written all over her features when she finally turned away, a woefully insufficient "I can't," all that she offered before she walked away.

However inexplicable, it seemed they were at an impasse.

And as the pair wordlessly made their way back to Edoras, neither could have said they'd found what they were looking for.