Chapter 34,

The morning was gentle, as if the forest mourned the coming farewell.

Mist clung low to the roots of the mallorn trees, and the air was cool and sweet with the scent of dew-soaked leaves. The Fellowship stood near the riverbank, where elegant boats bobbed quietly beside the dock, their smooth hulls carved from pale wood that shimmered like silk in the water. They were armored now, every piece fitted and checked, their packs secured, blades sharpened. There was little left to prepare—and too much left unspoken.

Elves moved silently among them, checking supplies, offering final flasks of crystal water, and wrapping lembas bread in folded leaves tied with silver cord. No one spoke too loudly. Lothlórien had a way of softening voices, as though the trees preferred quiet partings. And then, across the soft bend of the hill, she appeared.

Galadriel.

She moved like the morning incarnate—robed in silver and moonlight, her hair cascading like a stream of woven gold. No guards, no fanfare. Just her presence, and the way the world seemed to hush around it. She smiled softly as she approached, her gaze meeting each of theirs in turn, full of knowing and a quiet farewell.

She began with Aragorn, her voice low and melodic. "You are Isildur's heir, yet you carry your doubt like a heavier blade than any you wear." She handed him an ancient and beautifully wrought dagger, its hilt carved with the sigil of his house. "This was forged in the days before the shadow touched your people. Let it remind you of who you were… and still may become."

To Legolas, she presented a bow of the Galadhrim—long, elegant, strung with a cord as fine as hair but stronger than sinew. The arrows were fletched with grey swan feathers, soft but deadly. "Your heart is already in the trees," she said, her eyes dancing. "May this carry your aim as far as your spirit dares."

Sam accepted his small box of earth with wide, reverent eyes. "From my orchard," Galadriel said, pressing it into his hands. "For your Shire, should it ever need healing." Sam's lips trembled, but he nodded, clutching it like a piece of home.

To Merry and Pippin, she gave identical belts woven from leaf-patterned silver thread. The boys looked at each other, grinned, and immediately began comparing theirs as if one might somehow be better. Galadriel laughed lightly—an almost human sound.

Then she turned to Frodo, and her smile softened. "This is the light of Eärendil," she said, holding up a crystalline phial. "Our most beloved star. When all other lights go out… may this one remain." Frodo accepted it with both hands, his breath caught in his throat.

Her gaze turned to Aela, and something gentler stirred behind her timeless eyes. "You walk with fire in your blood and roots at your heels," she said, presenting a carved whistle strung with green twine. "Blow this when lost or surrounded by shadow. The birds of this land will find you, no matter how far."

Aela's brows lifted. "Even if I'm far beyond the woods?"

Galadriel nodded once. "Especially then."

Then, at last, she faced Elena.

The air felt heavier, and the light was goldener where they stood. From within a basket held by her attendant, Galadriel withdrew a long cloak the color of starlight, woven silver with threads of evergreen, clasped with a brooch shaped like a falling leaf. "You wear strength like armor, and silence like a shield," she said. "This will not make you unseen, but it will bend the gaze of darkness. So long as your heart remains your own… it will not find you easily."

Elena reached for it, her fingers brushing Galadriel's. Something passed between them—an understanding, heavy and wordless. "Thank you," Elena murmured.

"It is not your leash," Galadriel whispered. "But it may buy you space from those who seek to tighten it."

And then came Gimli, tugging at the edge of his beard as he stepped forward, his voice rough with nerves. "My lady… I do not ask for gold, steel, or crown," he began, clearing his throat. "Only one thing: a single strand of your hair. I might look upon it when darkness presses close, and remember that beauty still endures."

A silence fell—not heavy, but startled.

Galadriel regarded him, not with mirth, but with something close to warmth. Slowly, she stepped closer, reached up, and plucked three strands of her golden hair. She bound them in a silver thread and placed them in his large, weather-roughened hand. "Treasure it well," she said softly. "Tell your people that the Elves do not forget kindness… or courage."

Gimli stared at the gift like it might vanish if he blinked too hard. Then, wordlessly, he bowed—deep and reverent.

And the Fellowship stood still a moment longer, the hush of parting around them like the breath before an arrow is loosed.

The river waited, wide and slow, its surface brushed with the palest silver as morning crept softly across the land. There was no wind, no birdsong—only the distant murmur of leaves and the slow hush of the water moving. It felt like the forest held its breath, reluctant to release the travelers who had passed it like a fleeting dream. At the river's edge, the Fellowship stood prepared. Armored, cloaked, blades sheathed, and supplies secured, they looked less like soldiers now and more like fragments of a legend slowly sliding toward its next chapter.

Crafted from mallorn wood, the boats gleamed faintly with the gold of the trees that had birthed them. They were smooth and elegant, long enough to hold three comfortably, their hulls etched with pale patterns of vines and stars. As the Elves helped load the last of the packs—flasks of spring-clear water, leaf-wrapped lembas, spare quivers and blankets—no farewell words were offered. There was only a softness in every movement, a reverence, as if even parting must be done with grace here.

Galadriel stood at the end of the dock, her mantle trailing behind her like the last veil of night. She had said all that needed saying. No parting speech echoed from the trees. No horn sounded. And yet the weight of goodbye hung so heavily that even the river seemed to bow beneath it. When she met Elena's gaze across the boats, no words passed—but something settled in the space between them, a shared knowing that this peace was never meant to last.

Elena stepped into the vessel with the steady calm of someone who had walked through fire before and would do so again. Her boots made barely a sound as she settled toward the rear, checking her blades one last time, though she knew they were ready. Aela climbed in after her, silent for once, her whistle tucked into her belt, her fingers tracing the newly embroidered seams of her tunic. Legolas crouched at the front of the boat to test the weight distribution, his hand trailing lightly in the water, hoping to feel the forest's warmth one last time before it faded.

Their boat drifted forward as the others pushed off behind and ahead, gliding like feathers across the mirror-smooth water. For a long stretch, no one spoke. Only the soft dip of oars and the water ripple against the hull filled the stillness. The trees began to retreat slowly behind them, but not all at once. It was as though Lothlórien was reluctant to let go, drawing its golden light further down the river, holding onto the edges of the boats like the hem of a cloak that hadn't yet finished its blessing.

Elena watched the shore grow distant, her eyes catching glimpses of the flets between the trees, the gleam of a staircase wrapped around a trunk, the fading glint of silver lanterns that would soon no longer shine for them. The ache in her chest was subtle, but present—not sorrow exactly, but weight. She had not truly belonged to that forest, but it had sheltered her. It had given her silence when she needed it most. Now she carried that silence like a gift tucked beneath her ribs.

"Do you think we'll ever come back?" Aela asked, breaking the silence as she leaned against the side of the boat, her gaze on the river's bend.

Legolas turned slightly, his face composed, voice low. "If we do, it won't be as the people we are now."

Elena didn't answer. Her fingers rested near her pendant, and beneath it, the barely-there pulse of the crystal—silent now, but never gone. She could feel the shift in the air, like something had changed when they stepped onto the river. A slow return of motion. Of fate.

Behind them, Galadriel remained at the dock's edge, a pale figure among the trees. She did not wave. She did not weep. But her presence lingered like a final spell, cast not with magic but with mercy.

And then, as the current pulled them forward, Lothlórien slipped behind the mists and gold of morning.

Gone—but not forgotten.

The river carried them steadily southward, a silver ribbon winding between cliff walls that rose higher with each passing mile. The trees, once golden and whispering, had grown sparse and then skeletal. Green faded to brown and then to gray, the air cooler, the land harsher. Silence clung to the gorge now, broken only by the steady dip of oars and the rush of the Anduin pressing ever onward.

The sky was a deep bruise in the pre-dawn light, with stars fading reluctantly as the first pale light kissed the eastern cliffs. Mist hovered like a veil over the water's surface, clinging to the riverbank and curling around the boats like breath. The Fellowship drifted in stillness, their voices hushed by the majesty of the narrowing gorge, as if the stone had ears and memory.

The river narrowed between sheer stone walls, high cliffs rising like the teeth of some ancient beast. The sky above was still caught in the pale shiver of dawn, a soft veil of silver and lavender streaking overhead. Mist curled along the water's edge, skimming over the dark surface like breath made visible, wrapping the boats in a hush that made even the birds fall silent. The paddles dipped without sound. No one spoke. There was something sacred about the moment, fragile and vast.

Elena felt the shift in the air before she saw them. The trees had long since thinned into barren outcroppings of gray stone, the warmth of Lothlórien left behind like a dream they were afraid to remember. She sat upright at the rear of the boat, her cloak drawn close, her hand resting on the hilt of one blade. Beside her, Aela leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowed with curiosity, lips parted—not in fear, but in awe. Even Legolas, usually calm as a still lake, had gone motionless.

"Frodo," Aragorn called softly from the boat ahead, his voice barely rising over the current ripple.

Frodo turned, following Aragorn's gaze as the river bent around a final curve. The words died in his throat as the gorge opened and the world changed.

Rising from the cliffs like gods carved by time stood the Argonath.

Two massive statues of kings long passed, wrought from the very bones of the mountain. Their stony robes flowed like frozen rivers, their faces stern with wisdom and warning. Each raised a single hand solemnly, palm outstretched as though to say: No evil may pass. Their other hands rested upon the hilts of mighty stone swords, and though the years had worn them, their presence remained vast and unshakable.

Aela let out a slow, stunned breath, sitting up straighter. "They're… beautiful," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might insult the dead. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the sheer scale of the guardians watching over them. She'd read of statues in stories—of cities lost to time—but nothing had ever felt like this.

Elena couldn't speak. Her chest felt tight with something she couldn't name—perhaps reverence or the weight of lineage not her own. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, her eyes drawn to the outstretched palms, the way the morning sun caught their edges and crowned the kings in golden light. She looked to Aragorn, his face solemn and still as the stone above.

"Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old," he murmured, not to anyone in particular, but to the wind, the water, and the ghosts carved in stone. "My kin."

His voice cracked softly at the edges, as though the sight had carved into him as much as the statues had been carved from rock. Elena bowed her head slightly—not in submission but in respect. These were not merely statues. They were memory given form, guardians of a realm that had not yet forgotten its blood.

The boats drifted silently between the towering feet, shadows stretching long across the river's surface. The current pulled them forward gently, unhurried, as though even the water honored the place. Frodo stared up in wonder, his face lit with quiet awe. The hobbits had gone still, even Pippin, wide-eyed and silent.

Behind them, the towering faces loomed, cracked and weathered by time, but never broken.

Elena sat back slowly, letting the moment settle in her chest like cooled steel. "There's something about this place," she whispered, barely audible. "As if it remembers things we never lived."

Ahead, the cliffs widened, falling away like curtains drawn back from a stage.

And just beyond the gap, shrouded in fog and silence, a lake waited—calm and endless—like the last breath before a storm.

The boats had been carefully pulled onto the shore, their curved hulls nestled between roots and mossy rocks. The lake behind them had grown still, its surface flat and glassy as nightfall crept toward the horizon. There was something too quiet in the air now—not peace, but stillness—the kind that pressed into the chest and made hearts beat faster, not from exertion but anticipation.

They had reached the western bank beneath the slopes of Amon Hen, the Seat of Seeing, though none yet spoke of it. Above them, the wooded hill loomed, tangled in branches and veiled in ancient silence. Mist drifted through the trees, clinging to trunks and curling around ankles. The sun had long begun to sink, gilding the water in copper and leaving the forest floor dappled in long shadows.

Aragorn stood at the water's edge, watching the golden light slip behind the trees as if waiting for the lake to speak. His stance was steady, one hand resting casually—but not without purpose—on the hilt of his sword. "We cross the lake at nightfall," he said, breaking the hush. His voice was quiet, yet it carried. "We'll hide the boats and move forward on foot. We approach Mordor from the north."

A silence followed until Gimli gave a low scoff, his arms crossing. "Oh yes," he muttered with gloomy sarcasm. "Just a simple task, then. We'll navigate an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks with nothing but our boots and luck." He shook his head, grumbling. "And once that joy's behind us, we get to tramp through a festering swamp that stinks worse than an orc's backside."

Aragorn did not rise to the bait. His reply was calm, laced with steel. "That is our road, Master Dwarf. I suggest you rest and recover your strength."

Gimli huffed, halfway into another retort, but the moment shifted before he could speak.

Legolas, standing at the treeline, had gone very still.

His eyes were fixed not on the lake but into the shadows beyond the edge of the wood, and his body held taut like a drawn bowstring. "We should leave now," he said, his voice soft but certain. There is unease here… in the air, in the soil."

Aragorn turned toward him slowly, frowning. "No," he replied, measured and firm. "Orcs patrol the eastern shore. We wait for darkness to cloak our movement."

Legolas didn't argue, but neither did he relent. His bow hand twitched at his side, fingers grazing the curve of carved wood. "It is not the eastern shore that troubles me," he said, his gaze drifting up the slope toward the deeper forest. "Something stirs… watching, waiting."

From where she stood near one of the boats, Elena stiffened.

The back of her neck prickled, the hairs rising as if in answer to a silent whisper. She raised her head, scenting the air like a wolf in thick brush. "I can smell it too," she murmured, voice rough, a low current of dread winding through each word. "There's something in these woods. Close. Rotting… but not dead. Not properly."

Aela turned toward her sharply, her brow knit. "You mean like a body?"

Elena shook her head once, slow and firm. "Worse than that. It's the stench of something that shouldn't be moving—old blood, bile, and bone. Something that's come too far from the grave."

Frodo swallowed hard, his fingers brushing the Ring through the cloth of his shirt. The air felt heavier now. Even the trees seemed to lean in, listening.

Legolas nodded, as if her words had shaped what he had only felt. "A shadow and a threat have been growing in my mind," he said, eyes scanning the tree line. "Something draws near. I can feel it."

The wind shifted, brushing cold fingers across their cloaks. Somewhere in the trees above them, a branch cracked—not loud, not close, but sharp enough to still every breath in the camp.

The Fellowship stood silently, weapons still sheathed, but fingers tensing near hilts and bowstrings. The forest watched.

And the waiting began.

The campfire had burned low, casting golden flickers over the sleeping forms huddled near it. It's light painted soft halos along the curve of Frodo's cloak, the dull gleam of blades still sheathed beside their owners, the smooth arch of the boats pulled up onto the shore. Smoke curled lazily into the night, too thin to see clearly but heavy with the scent of wood and ash. Somewhere nearby, water lapped softly against stone, rhythmic and steady. It should have been a peaceful hour for breathing, recovering, and leaning into the illusion of safety.

Elena rested with her back against the thick trunk of an ancient tree, her legs stretched in front of her, fingers curled loosely around the hilt of her sword. Her eyes had drifted shut, not from trust, but from exhaustion. The forest was far too quiet for comfort, but her body—worn and battered—had given in to the lure of momentary stillness. She had promised herself not to sleep. She had told Aela she'd remain alert. But the fire's warmth, the night's hush, and the long ache in her bones stole her vigilance in the space between heartbeats.

Then—

"Where's Frodo?"

The words pierced the stillness like an arrow loosed from the dark. Elena's eyes flew open, her breath catching before sound could return to the world. She was on her feet in an instant, the moment of waking clashing hard against the weight of dread settling in her chest. Around her, others stirred—Merry's voice had carried, but Sam reacted next, sitting bolt upright, scanning the dim forms of those still resting nearby.

Aragorn's head snapped around, eyes flashing toward the firelight, sharp and wild. Then they dropped to Frodo's bedroll, untouched. To Boromir's. Empty. And at its side, the absence of his shield, the sword belt gone, the blanket folded too neatly. The realization was swift. Crushing.

Elena didn't speak. She didn't need to. The firelight gleamed against the tension in her jaw, the line of her shoulders tightening as her gaze darted to the treeline. She knew it in her gut—how a hunter knows when prey has bolted. Or worse, when someone has gone hunting with ill intent.

"He's gone after him," she said softly, each word a stone dropped into still water. "Boromir. He followed Frodo."

Merry looked stricken, lips parted in disbelief. "He just walked off… I—I thought he needed air. I didn't think—" His voice broke off as Sam stumbled to his feet, his face pale and drawn.

Legolas dropped silently from the low tree limb he'd claimed as a perch. His bow was already in hand. "There are two trails," he said, not asking permission to follow. "Frodo moved fast away from us. Boromir followed not long after. Not running. Not yet."

Aragorn stood frozen for the briefest moment, his hand clenched near the hilt of his sword, breath caught between fury and despair. Then his voice returned, steady, though it cost him. "Stay here. Guard the hobbits. We'll—"

"No," Elena cut in, voice like drawn steel. "We go together."

Their eyes locked—Aragorn's full of burden, of too many battles and losses. Elena's burned with the ache of instinct and the whisper of something she couldn't yet name but refused to ignore. He gave a quick and grim nod and turned toward the woods.

Aela was armed, her bow strung and ready, silent at her mother's side. The fire at her back warmed nothing now. The night had changed.

The shadows beyond the treeline opened like jaws.

And without another word, they plunged into them together.

The forest had fallen into that eerie hush that signaled something sacred or broken. Not even the wind stirred. The trees stood motionless, their limbs stretched overhead like the ribs of a forgotten cathedral. Shadows poured across the forest floor in long, jagged streaks, and the silence beneath them was no longer peaceful—it was expectant, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Every step felt heavier, more cautious, as if the ground might betray them if they moved too quickly.

They found him near the crest of a shallow rise, half-silhouetted by the soft haze of light slanting through the trees.

Frodo stood at the edge of a clearing, still and shivering, like someone who had just awakened from a nightmare and wasn't sure he had left it. And then, as if peeling himself out of another world, he appeared. One moment, there was only empty air. The next, he was there, shoulders tense, breathing hard, eyes glassy with something far too old for someone so young. His form wavered like a heat mirage, fading entirely into the material world with a shimmer that left the hairs on Elena's arms standing straight.

Elena stopped in her tracks. Her heart stuttered painfully in her chest as understanding clicked into place. That moment at Rivendell—Bilbo, chuckling nervously, speaking of vanishing before Smaug. She hadn't understood it then. But now, watching Frodo blink back into view, the world's edges still clinging to his skin like mist, the truth was undeniable. The ring had cloaked Bilbo in shadow just as it was doing now.

Aela, just behind her, looked on with wide eyes, her bow forgotten in her grip. "That wasn't… magic," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "That was something else."

Frodo looked dazed, a sheen of sweat on his brow. His cloak hung unevenly around him, his limbs shaking with the aftershock of what he'd just experienced. He looked smaller than ever.

"Frodo?" Aragorn's voice was low and thick with urgency, but there was a gentleness in it, too. He stepped forward slowly, careful not to crowd the boy or sound like a threat.

Frodo didn't answer right away. His head tilted slightly, as if trying to gauge whether Aragorn's voice belonged to friend or foe. Then he blinked, and the fear inside him pushed past the veil. "It's taken Boromir," he whispered, his voice numb and raw. "The ring. It took him."

Aragorn's expression tightened, his brow furrowing. He took another step forward. "Where is the ring?"

That question made Frodo flinch.

The movement was slight, but it changed everything.

Elena saw it. So did Aragorn.

He froze mid-step, his hands open, unarmed, his gaze searching Frodo's face. The hesitation in Frodo's eyes wasn't just fear. There was doubt in him.

"Frodo," Aragorn said softly, pained, "I swore to protect you."

Frodo's voice broke on the following words, but they came anyway, jagged and aching. "Can you protect me from yourself?"

It was not an accusation. It was desperation.

He raised his hand slowly, fingers uncurling.

And there it was.

The ring gleamed in the center of his trembling palm—bright, golden, and innocent in the dappled light—but it pulsed with something far older than beauty. Elena inhaled sharply, instinct pulling her a step back even as her body tried to lean forward. She could feel it—its call. It was not for her, but it radiated hunger like a beast of silence and promise.

Aragorn didn't move. His eyes locked onto the ring, and his body went utterly still for a moment. Elena saw his throat work around a swallow. His fingers curled, then released, trembling. Aela's hand twitched toward her bow. Legolas shifted behind them, quiet as breath, but Elena felt the tension coil in him like a bowstring ready to snap.

She stepped closer to Aragorn, her voice barely a whisper. "You don't have to look at it."

"I know," he said, but his voice was hoarse. "But I must choose."

Frodo stepped back another pace, his fingers beginning to curl again around the ring, as if he feared Aragorn might lunge forward after all.

The horn's call still rang in Elena's ears, reverberating through her bones like a funeral bell struck too early. It echoed not just through the trees, but through her heart, through every warning her instincts had whispered since they first stepped off the boats. Something had been watching them. She knew it. And now it was no longer watching—it was coming.

Steel flashed in her hands as her blades came free, the familiar weight settling into her palms with a finality that quickened her breath. Around her, the forest transformed in a heartbeat. Legolas stood like a statue, ready to fire, his face shadowed and unreadable. Aela had already lost one arrow, deadly and sure, her jaw set with determination far too old for her years. Gimli's boots pounded as he rushed forward, his axe lifted in a defiant roar of challenge.

Elena turned her eyes toward the hill, and her stomach twisted.

They weren't just Orcs.

They were bigger, their movements less wild, more controlled. Their armor was thick, their weapons brutal and efficient. And across their armor, in smeared white, the mark of a hand. The mark of Isengard.

How?

Her thoughts spun even as her feet shifted into a fighting stance. How had they found them at the forest's edge beneath the Seat of Seeing? Galadriel's land had shielded them, cloaking their presence in something sacred. But now, something had pierced it. Saruman had pierced it. Had he sent them mindlessly, or had someone… something led them?

Elena's chest tightened. There had been whispers in her dreams since the river, echoes in the trees she had ignored because she wanted to rest. Because she needed to believe they were safe for a little longer.

She had been wrong.

"Run!" Aragorn's voice rang like a blade drawn through the air. "Run, Frodo!"

The hobbit hesitated just long enough for Elena to see the terror blooming behind his eyes—then he turned and fled, disappearing into the trees, his footsteps muffled by moss and panic.

She spun as the first Uruk lunged at her, its blade aimed low, fast. Her swords met its strike with a screech of steel, sparks flashing in the half-light. She twisted, deflected, and drove her second blade into its side, yanking it free as the creature fell with a strangled cry.

They were not like the others. These didn't shriek in fear. They didn't scatter when cut down. They kept coming.

Aela fired again, her stance anchored beside a tree, eyes scanning for any that veered toward Frodo's path. Legolas moved with the grace of wind through leaves, his arrows a blur. Gimli was already locked in, his axe cleaving with merciless rhythm. But the line wasn't thinning. It was building.

"They knew," Elena whispered, ducking beneath another strike. "They knew exactly where to find us."

The ring hadn't just drawn Boromir.

It had drawn them all.

And now, they had to survive it.

He stood on the ridge like something carved from hate and ash, still as a statue, but with far too much malice in how he breathed. Lurtz was not like the others. His eyes had no madness—only a cold and focused cruelty. His body was built for war, all bone and sinew bound in armor that looked pieced together from shattered shields and broken lives. Saruman's pale hand was smeared across his chest, stark against his dark skin like a brand of ownership.

Below him, the battle surged in waves of steel and screaming. The Uruk-hai charged with reckless fury, slamming into the line of defenders with monstrous strength. Aragorn led the resistance like a wall of fire, his sword flashing, unrelenting. Legolas stood in the half-shadow of trees, his arrows vanishing the instant they left the bowstring, every shot a kill. Gimli roared with each swing, his axe singing in a song older than stone. But none of that held Lurtz's attention.

He scanned the battlefield slowly, methodically, like a hunter picking through prey not yet worth killing. Then he saw her.

A flash of black hair, soaked in sweat and rain. A figure moving not with rage, but with precision, her twin blades weaving arcs of silver in the air. Elena's eyes burned with quiet fire, her expression unreadable, but every movement honed to perfection. She fought like someone who had known pain intimately and had made it a blade of her own. There was no flourish, no pride—only brutal necessity and a strange, sorrowful elegance. And to Lurtz, she was no soldier.

She was a target.

He raised his arm, and the Uruks closest to him stilled, watching. "Find the halflings," he growled, his voice like ground stone—coarse, deep, and thick with satisfaction. "Bring them back. Alive." They moved quickly, vanishing into the trees, blades gleaming like teeth, snarling as they went. But Lurtz remained where he was, unmoving.

His focus never left her.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting his voice curl downward like smoke. "Kill the others," he ordered. "Spill their blood. Leave nothing breathing." Then, with something disturbingly close to reverence, he said, "But not the black-haired one. The Master wants her alive."

Elena did not hear his voice, but her body knew when his attention found her. Something profound in her spine coiled tight, and for a heartbeat, the rhythm of battle around her felt... wrong. Like the wind had shifted and now carried a scent meant only for her. She parried a strike, turned on her heel, and saw nothing—just trees, bodies, and chaos. But still, her stomach twisted with a fear far colder than any blade.

Why hadn't they come for her like they had for Frodo?

She didn't have the ring. She wasn't Elven royalty or part of a prophecy. And yet she felt it. The shift. The way the fight around her wasn't random anymore—Uruks were trying to separate her and drive a wedge between her and the others. She caught a glimpse of Aela through the trees, loosing arrow after arrow, her young face carved with determination. But there was panic in her voice when she called out.

"Mama!"

Elena turned, blocking a downward strike with a scream of steel. Her muscles burned, her breath tore through her lungs, but none mattered. They weren't trying to kill her. The blows weren't meant to land. They were pushing her back and herding her.

She realized then—they had not come to slay her.

They had come to take her.

The battlefield was no longer a battlefield—it was a snare. Every clash of blade and every scream echoed between the trees like ghosts trying to warn them, but no one had the breath left to listen. Elena moved on instinct now, her blades dancing in blurred arcs, her muscles screaming from the relentless rhythm. She was used to fighting hard. She wasn't used to fighting cornered. These creatures didn't strike like beasts—they hit like soldiers with orders.

And those orders were centered on her.

She saw how they moved and didn't go for the killing blow when they had the chance. One swiped at her legs, not to wound, but to unbalance. Another reached—not for her throat, but her shoulder, fingers clawed and grasping. They were trying to grab her. She pivoted out of reach with a snarl, slicing into its side, but the truth was now louder than the war cries. They didn't want her dead. They wanted her taken.

"Aela!" she cried, turning to look for her daughter—but the forest was a storm of black shapes and flashes of steel. She caught a glimpse of her—blond hair streaked with sweat, bow still in hand—but Aela was being pushed back. Not overwhelmed, but dragged away by the flow of battle, step by step. Elena started to move toward her, but three more Uruks blocked her path. One lunged. She parried. Another flanked her.

It felt like drowning on land.

Legolas saw it unraveling high above, perched on a boulder slick with blood and rain. His bow was nearly empty now, quiver half-spent. He turned his gaze to Elena, and the unease in his chest solidified into certainty. She wasn't just another fighter in this battle. She was the target. He saw how they moved around her, like wolves around a stag, not eager to pounce, but closing in, tightening the ring.

He called her name, sharp and urgent in Elvish. But the wind ripped the sound away, and so did the clash of metal and the roar of fury rising from every corner of the forest.

Elena faltered. A blade grazed her side, slicing through the edge of her cloak, and she felt the sting of it, but she didn't cry out. She couldn't afford to. She twisted, drove her sword through its neck, and yanked it free, blood soaking her gauntlet. Her eyes scanned the carnage and met Legolas's for one brief moment.

And in that heartbeat, they both knew.

She wasn't fighting to win anymore.

She was fighting not to be stolen.