Author's note:
Welcome to this slightly unconventional take on Middle-earth!
This story spans ages, bends time and space, and carries the weight of things long forgotten.
Expect slow burn, unresolved tension, and a flower shop that may or may not have deeper significance.
Aragorn (undercover as Ian) and Legolas (Leander) are doing their best to adjust to the modern world, while Esther just wants to get through her day without questioning reality too much. Spoiler: she fails.
The story is finished up to chapter 40, in beta up to chapter 55, and will likely end at around 55-60 chapters.
There's humour, mystery, and emotional baggage – but don't worry, I promise a happy ending (eventually).
I'd love to hear from you - thoughts, theories, or just impressions as the story unfolds. Your feedback means a lot and helps shape the journey.
Disclaimer:
The characters and world of The Lord of the Rings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. I do not own any rights to the original works. This is a work of fanfiction, and all characters and settings are used without permission. The original content and story in this fanfiction are my own.
Content Information:
This story includes themes of psychological and physical peril, trauma, manipulation, and emotionally intense (and hopefully romantic!) scenes. Please read with care.
And one last warning:
I handle Middle-earth and its characters loosely – but always with respect, love, and care. However, this means AU (Alternate Universe), likely some OOC (Out of Character), and OC (Original Characters).
And just to be sure, please:
Do not use this story for generating/programming AI, language models, or bots.
Do not add this story to any platforms other than and AO3
Do not use my OCs or storyline for spin-offs or related stories.
…without my explicit permission and consent.
oOo
Content warning
This chapter contains intense depictions of physical violence, assault, and injury, which may be distressing for some readers. If you find such content distressing, you may choose to skip the section marked by XXX. Reader discretion is advised.
oOo
Prologue
Some stories wait centuries to be told - this one found me somewhere between grocery lists, school runs and forgotten coffee cups on the kitchen counter.
I've carried it with me for years, thinking about it during late-night laundry loads or while trying to keep my two kids entertained. I've tried to tell it before, but there was always something more 'important': work, life, all the little things that fill up your life in your thirties and forties.
You might feel the same way. You may think you're not the type for stories, that you've got too much reality in front of you to make room for daydreams. But even still, there's that one story, the one that keeps nudging at you, waiting for the right moment. For me, that moment is now.
Chapter 1
2005, Third Age of Middle-earth, Castle of the line of Sorolfin, Rhovannion
Darkness and silence.
Both were familiar, but this time, they pressed down on her like a suffocating shroud, as though the world had been swallowed whole. A dull throb pulsed in her skull, anchoring her to consciousness, but everything else felt distant, like she was drifting between worlds.
Pain was no stranger; it had been her shadow for over three centuries, a constant companion to every act of defiance or imagined fault. This darkness, however, was unusual, and the oppressive silence around her was even more unsettling. There was always a torch burning in the corridor, its flickering light warding off the worst of the gloom.
But this morning, nothing.
She could not pick up a sound. For a moment, fear seized her, and she wondered if she had lost her sight and hearing – though the beatings she had endured the previous day hadn't been severe enough to cause such lasting damage.
She sat up slowly, her hands again instinctively reaching out to the stone floor. The clinking of her chains and the rhythmic thudding of her heart were the only sounds she now could discern. Relief surged when she realised the silence was external - so complete it felt suffocating.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. The familiar shapes of her prison - cold stone walls and iron bars - emerged like ghosts from the shadows. This was her fourth time in this cell, each escape attempt met with heavier chains and darker dungeons. She could almost predict the rhythm of it all, the routine of her captivity.
But something was wrong.
No muffled voices, no footsteps. Even the birds outside, faint yet ever-present, were gone.
By now, the guards should have come to drag her out, whether to labour in the stables or to serve as a humiliating display at one of their banquets - a rare spectacle, for slaves of the Firstborn were both uncommon and prized. They never let her stay idle for long. And then, there were the dungeons. Her body still remembered the icy touch of their depths, where darkness clung tighter than her chains.
She shivered, shaking off the memories. Despair was the true danger here. Elves could endure centuries of pain, but despair could hollow them, draw their spirits into the void. It whispered to her even now, urging her to surrender to the silence.
Beriel's fingers grazed the stone beneath her, grounding her. For over three hundred years, she had endured this. Half her life stolen, and though not old by elven standards, the weight of her imprisonment had aged her in ways that couldn't be seen. She barely remembered the old songs, the stories, the strength they gave.
Not that it mattered. She had always been an outsider. Too tall for a hobbit, too short for an elf. Too skilled for one, too clumsy for the other. A daughter of mixed blood - a hobbit father and an elven mother - neither race knew what to make of her.
Perhaps that was why no one had come.
A crash shattered her thoughts.
Her heart leapt into her throat as the sound echoed through the halls. Another crash followed, closer this time. Voices, harsh and guttural, rippled through the silence.
Her blood ran cold. Black Speech. Orcs.
She scrambled to her feet, chains rattling, straining to hear. Why now? Who had let them in? Panic clawed at her chest. She tugged at the chain bolted to the wall, desperate to free herself. Her breath quickened as the voices grew louder.
She had no weapon, nothing to defend herself with, except the chain.
Her breath quickened, the cold air of the cell suddenly suffocating. The voices grew louder, closer, their guttural tones thick with malice. There were four of them, maybe more. Beriel yanked again, straining with all her might. The iron ring in the wall groaned, but held fast. Panic rose like bile in her throat. She pulled again, with everything she had, and suddenly, the ring snapped free.
Beriel stumbled backward, the weight of the chain dragging her to the ground. She landed hard on her back, gasping, but there was no time to recover. They were coming.
The door to the cell next to hers was kicked open with a crash, the sound reverberating through the stone halls. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she pressed herself against the wall, the broken chain coiled around her hands. If she could catch them off guard, maybe - just maybe - she had a chance.
But her heart pounded painfully as she realized the odds were stacked against her. She was weak, malnourished, and unarmed. The iron chain was heavy and awkward in her grip, far from an effective weapon. Still, she held on to it, her knuckles white. Desperation was her ally now.
The guttural voices outside grew louder. Then, the hinges of her cell door groaned, and it burst open. An orc stormed in, his filthy scimitar glinting faintly in the dim light. Without thinking, Beriel swung the chain with all her might. It struck his arm rather than his head, knocking the weapon from his hand, but not stopping him. He snarled, lunging at her.
She stumbled backward, swinging again wildly. This time, the chain struck his face, opening a gash along his cheek. He bellowed in rage, falling back just enough for her to seize the scimitar from the ground.
XXX
But her victory was short-lived. Another orc barrelled into the room, grabbing her wrist before she could lift the blade. His grip was like iron, twisting her arm until she cried out and dropped the weapon. Pain flared in her shoulder as he shoved her against the wall, her head snapping back against the stone. Stars danced in her vision, and she felt the iron chain being yanked from her grasp.
Before she could recover, the first orc returned, his eyes blazing with fury. He swung a fist into her ribs, sending her crumpling to the ground. She gasped, curling in on herself as the air was forced from her lungs. A boot followed…one kick, then another. Pain rippled through her body with each blow, sharp and unrelenting.
XXX
"Enough!" a voice snarled from the doorway, cutting through the chaos like a blade. It was high and rasping, full of malevolent authority. The orcs froze immediately, their anger tempered by fear. The oppressive presence Beriel had felt earlier seemed to press harder against her chest, suffocating her.
One of the orcs grabbed her by the chain around her ankles and hauled her upright. She sagged against his grip, her legs trembling beneath her. The chain clinked as they began to drag her forward, her bare feet stumbling on the cold stone floor.
As they ascended, the fortress was unnervingly quiet. Corpses littered the halls - maids, soldiers - all lifeless and still, their faces twisted in fear. No blood, no signs of struggle. It was as though their very essence had been stripped away.
Beriel's mind raced as she was dragged along, her body weak, her spirit trembling. The suffocating presence that followed them was unlike anything she had felt before. It wasn't just death that had come to this place - it was something far darker.
Steeling herself, she whispered, "Elbereth Gilthoniel…" invoking the light of the Valar. The words steadied her, a small anchor against the rising tide of dread.
"Shut your elven nonsense!" hissed an orc, pulling on the chain again. She staggered, the metallic taste of blood from her earlier fall sharp on her tongue
They hauled her into the courtyard, where the pale light of dawn illuminated a figure cloaked in darkness. Its presence radiated cold malice, silencing even the orcs. They kept their distance, eyes averted.
Beriel froze. A wraith. One of the Úlairi, the Nine. She had thought them long-vanished, their legends consigned to ancient tales. But here it stood, a shadow bound to malice, its very form a mockery of life. Her breath quickened, nausea churning in her stomach as the wraith moved closer. She tried to pull back, but rough hands forced her forward.
"You are not of the Firstborn," the wraith's voice slithered into her mind, cold and metallic. It felt like invading her thoughts and memories, its vile presence coiling around her spirit.
Beriel's limbs felt leaden, her voice caught in her throat. She couldn't fight it.
"...the woman who is not…" the wraith murmured, almost to itself. Its tone shifted, laced with something that could have been triumph, or foreboding. "Our Master will want to see her…"
Beriel didn't understand. The words held no meaning to her, nor did she know she had just touched the edge of a prophecy that would entwine her fate with far greater powers:
A woman of three bloods entwined,
Her gift a spark of ancient kind.
A king who walks a fated course,
Their paths entwined by hidden force.
The woman who is not shall rise,
The king who never was defies,
Together, they must break the night,
And free the world from endless fight.
Had she known, Beriel might have laughed bitterly. Nothing felt more absurd than her playing any role in downfall of dark powers.
The wraith's voice broke the silence. "Take her. The Master will be pleased. Do what you will with her, but she must remain alive - and undamaged enough to be of use."
It leaned closer, skeletal fingers brushing her cheek in a grotesque parody of tenderness. The chill sank into her skin, making her shudder. Beriel flinched, only to be struck again by an orc.
The wraith turned, mounting a massive black horse. "I will meet you in two days' time. Do not fail me."
They left her tied to a tree outside the fortress as the orcs looted and burned. The acrid stench of smoke and charred flesh filled the air, but Beriel forced her mind away from the horrors. She focused on her breath, slow and even, counting each inhalation to drown out the smell and the crackling flames.
Her ribs ached, and the throbbing in her skull refused to relent, but she assessed her injuries almost with detachment. Bruised, battered, dehydrated, likely a cracked rib - but alive. For now.
The orcs regrouped in the woods as dusk fell, dragging her along when they moved. Their pace was punishing, each step jarring her injured side. She stumbled, earning the sting of a leather whip on her back.
"Get up, elf-scum!" one snarled, yanking her forward.
Her legs gave way again and again until, at last, her body refused to obey. The whip bit into her skin, but she couldn't rise. Her vision swam as rough hands lifted her like a sack of grain, slinging her over a broad shoulder.
Pain lanced through her, until the darkness swallowed her whole.
oOo
Legolas crouched in the trees, his eyes piercing the shifting fog that clung to the forest floor. Below, the orc band moved with unusual urgency. There were too many to attack alone, and discovery without reinforcements would doom any rescue attempt. But their presence this far east, deep into Mirkwood, was troubling. Why here? And why in such haste?
Then, something shifted in his perception. Amidst the orc pack, his gaze caught a flicker of something… different. A figure slung across the back of one of the orcs, a woman. She was barely conscious, bound and beaten, but there was something about her.
Instinct and curiosity sharpened his focus, and he marked the tree for his companions before slipping into the shadows, moving silently through the mist.
At dawn, the orcs halted, retreating into the underbrush. Their captive was bound roughly to a tree while two guards kept watch, drowsy, but alert. Legolas moved closer, his senses attuned to every shift of the wind and sound of the forest.
The woman stirred. Her movements were slow, deliberate, not the random, frantic movements of someone who had lost hope. A certain stillness to her, a quiet strength that caught his attention. She wasn't simply enduring her captivity, she seemed to be waiting. A glimpse of her pointed ears beneath dark, matted hair confirmed it: an elf.
A cold fury settled over him. Her injuries were severe, her suffering evident in every shallow breath. A soft melody rose from her lips, barely audible, so fragile it seemed to dissolve into the sounds of the forest. He almost didn't hear it, but then it was interrupted, an orc guard struck her sharply, and her body crumpled. A low groan escaped her, and for a moment, she looked almost lifeless. Legolas's jaw tightened, his hand twitching toward his bow before he forced himself still. Anger would do her no good now.
A sound behind him disrupted his focus. Without turning, he muttered, "Dinendal, you're making enough noise to wake a cave troll."
A quiet snicker answered him as Dinendal crouched at his side. "I don't see any trolls, but I do see a problem," his companion whispered, his voice low but laced with anger. His eyes widened as they fell on the captive. "Is she…an elf?"
"An elf," Legolas confirmed grimly.
Berion joined them, his face hardening as he took in the scene. "We're not leaving her here," he said, his tone fierce.
"There are thirty orcs, and we're five," Legolas replied. "We'll need more than bravery."
"We could split them, lure part of the group away," Dinendal suggested, his voice low but urgent.
Legolas nodded, his eyes never leaving the captive. "They'll never abandon her completely, but it might buy us enough time to get her free."
The plan formed quickly in tense whispers, each elf knowing the risks. As the others slipped into position, Legolas stayed behind, his sharp gaze fixed on the orcs.
The first rays of sunlight broke through the trees, casting long shadows across the clearing. He felt the familiar weight of his bow against his shoulder, his fingers brushing the fletching of his arrows. Too few, he thought grimly.
Berion's form flitted between trees on the far side of the clearing, and Dinendal signalled that the others were in position. Legolas took a slow, steadying breath. He drew an arrow, the string of his bow taut, as he waited for the signal.
Time stretched, every moment brimming with tension. The orcs stirred uneasily, sensing the forest's sudden stillness. Legolas's gaze flicked to the elf woman. Her head hung low, her hair veiling her face, but her presence anchored his resolve.
They had one chance. Failure was not an option.
oOo
Beriel lifted her head slowly, fighting against the weight of her exhaustion. Amid the crude noise of the orc camp, she heard something that made her heart race - a sound she hadn't heard in centuries. An owl's call, but not a real one. It was the signal of an elven warrior.
Her breath quickened, and she scanned the clearing, eyes darting across the shadows. Nothing. Then, another call came, from a different direction. More of them. The elves were here.
Legolas observed her struggle to raise her head, noting how she seemed frail and battered. Her clothes were tattered, her skin marred by scars. Despite her elven features, something about her seemed... off. She was too small, too unrefined in her movements, lacking the effortless grace that should come with being one of the Firstborn.
As more of his companions crept into position, Legolas signalled them with a subtle hand movement. Bowstrings twanged in unison, and five orcs fell, including the guards. Chaos erupted as the others scrambled to grab their weapons. Legolas surged forward, dagger in hand, slicing through the throat of an orc before it could react.
He reached the elf, whose wide, dark grey eyes stared at him in disbelief. It was almost as if she'd never seen one of her kind before. There was something ancient in her gaze, something that spoke of long, painful years. He began cutting through the ropes binding her hands, speaking in a low, soothing voice.
He reached her, cutting through the ropes binding her hands. "Who are you?"
"Beriel, daughter of Tindomiel," she rasped.
Legolas froze, his hand stilling on the ropes. The name struck him like a blow. Tindomiel—the elven woman who had borne a child with a hobbit. The memory stirred uneasily in his mind, but there was no time to dwell on it now.
"I am Legolas, son of Thranduil."
"Thranduil... wasn't he the king of Mirkwood?" Her voice was distant, as if she were reciting a history she hadn't touched in years. Her Elvish was rusty, halting, as though she had long since stopped speaking it.
"He still is," Legolas confirmed, cutting the last of her bonds. Around them, the battle raged on, but their escape had to come first. "We need to move. Can you run?"
"I'll manage." She nodded, though her body swayed as he pulled her to her feet. She winced, clutching her side where an orc's blow had struck.
The remaining orcs had noticed their captive's escape and were closing in. Legolas and his companions fought desperately, trying to keep Beriel shielded in their midst as they retreated toward the cover of the trees.
And then it came: an oppressive, unnatural presence. Cold dread washed over Legolas, chilling him to the core. His heart seized in terror as he realized what was approaching. A Nazgul.
Beriel recoiled as if struck, her eyes wide with fear. The orcs didn't attack but circled them, swords drawn and poised at their throats. Legolas's instincts screamed at him to act, but any wrong move would bring swift death.
Then, the Dark One emerged, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. He seized Beriel by the wrist, yanking her toward him. "You let her escape? Pathetic," he growled to the orcs. "I will take her now. Do what you wish with the others."
Legolas's breath caught in his throat as the Dark One hoisted Beriel onto a black steed and bound her to the saddle. She was motionless, her face drained of all colour, and in that moment, she seemed utterly lost.
As the Dark One rode off, Beriel still bound to him, Legolas stood frozen in despair. His heart ached with the crushing knowledge that he had failed.
Just as the orcs prepared to strike the remaining elves, a hail of arrows rained down from the trees. More elven warriors burst from the underbrush, quickly overwhelming the remaining orcs. But it was too late. The Dark One had taken Beriel, and Legolas would carry the weight of that failure forever.
oOo
Days had passed, yet the weight of that night lingered like a shadow over Legolas, a constant reminder of their defeat. He had fought fiercely, with every ounce of strength, but it hadn't been enough. Beriel was gone.
Now, standing before Elrond in the silent halls of Imladris, the air felt thick with unspoken sorrow. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light on the ancient tapestries that adorned the room, but there was no warmth in Legolas's heart. He had already delivered some grim messages in his lifetime, but none as painful as this.
"I should have seen it coming," Legolas began, his voice strained with the guilt he had carried since that day. "We were so close to get away..."
Elrond, seated before him, remained still, his gaze distant. Beneath the calm façade, his eyes betrayed the sorrow he held. His connection to Beriel ran deep: she was his grand-niece, like a daughter to him in all but blood, lost to them before, and now, once again, she had slipped from their grasp.
Legolas forced himself to continue. "…but the Dark One's forces were too many."
The silence between them thickened, heavy with grief and regret. Neither spoke for a long moment, the weight of the failure pressing on them both.
Elrond finally looked away, his gaze falling to the flames. "And your search?" he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.
"The scouts found nothing," Legolas replied, his throat tightening. "The Dúnedain combed the woods, the mountains... everywhere we could think of. But it's as if she vanished without a trace."
Elrond's hands clenched ever so slightly in his lap. The news, though expected, struck deep. They had thought her lost for good 300 years ago, and now she was presumed lost again. The thought of Beriel being taken once more, especially by the Dark One's minions, was a bitter pill to swallow.
After a long pause, Elrond spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was hurt, you said?"
Legolas nodded. "Hurt but her spirit was unbroken, I felt it. She may yet live and return to you."
Elrond turned his gaze back to him, and Legolas saw the flash of something - perhaps hope, perhaps doubt - in the Elf-lord's eyes. "She is strong," Elrond said, though the words felt fragile in the stillness of the room.
The silence returned, heavier than before. Legolas let out a long breath, the burden of his failure pressing down on him. "If she's alive," he said quietly, "we will find her. But if not... if I failed her…"
Elrond stood then, moving closer to Legolas. He placed a hand on the younger Elf's shoulder. "You did what you could. And you will keep trying. We will not give up on her." His voice softened, but the conviction in it remained clear. "This is not the end of her story."
The words settled in the room, heavy with both fear and hope. Elrond's thoughts drifted to the long years they had already endured, years of waiting and uncertainty. The ache of Beriel's absence was familiar, but no less painful.
As the fire crackled and the wind howled outside Imladris' windows, a sense of foreboding lingered in the air. Elrond closed his eyes briefly, remembering Beriel, once a lively, courageous child. To him, she had been a flicker of light in an ever-darkening world. Her spirit was too strong to be extinguished so easily.
"We will uncover her fate," Elrond vowed quietly to the night. His voice was firm despite the shadows that clung to his thoughts. "Whatever it takes, we will bring her home."
And for over a thousand years, each night, Elrond Halfelven prayed to Eru and the Valar to keep Beriel, daughter of Tindomiel, safe from harm.