I can only trust in the death of my warriors and Brendyn's word as proof that I met our rival. I have failed in gathering information and tracking down the evil that will surely destroy you—the only light strong enough to inspire a war.

::::::::::

L U M O R N E L

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I cried out, stopping my belly crawl as pain bloomed across my back. Cool, muddy earth loomed just above me, below me, all around me. Despite the soft glow I managed to bring forth from my hands and arms, the darkness threatened to consume me.

"Lumornel?" The man—Aragorn—cautiously placed a hand on my ankle.

I focused on breathing through my nose, squeezing my eyes closed as blood warmed my skin. "Stitches ripped."

Silence. There was nothing we could do but continue crawling. I tapped Elrohir's boot, who had stopped when my pained groan filled the tight cavity, letting him know to move on.

Minutes later, with silent, pained tears streaking down my face, Elrohir finally reached the end of the slippery and damp and stupidly painful tunnel and knocked out a rhythm on what sounded to be a wooden trap door.

A few rhythmic knocks were exchanged and then something rattled on the other side. The door opened, spilling light so bright that my own light was drowned and my eyes were forced to close.

Ahead, Elrohir cursed while a man laughed. "Someone has to do something about this light."

"It's a lantern," the guard said, obviously amused. "It only has one brightness."

Elrohir mumbled something incoherently about breaking said lantern as he unceremoniously fell out of the tunnel.

I crawled towards the blinding light, squinting and gritting my teeth, not caring that my headscarf was slightly askew and that a few of my winter strands hung limply free. The man, adorned in polished but old armor stretched out a hand to help me free—

He hesitated. His face paled.

Fine, I thought, stretching my shoulders over the short drop to the ground, unable to keep a groan from escaping my mouth. Elrohir, literally covered in mud, quickly came and helped me out.

The lively guard had gone quiet, even as the others made their way out, even as I sat unmoving on the ground covered in mud and my own blood, grimacing through the agony ripping through my back.

"She is one of us," Aragorn said sternly. "She is of no danger to you."

Well right now I certainly am not, I thought as the iron tang of blood filled my nose, as my back and shoulder felt like fire.

But this was the Western Hope and I couldn't be seen as a weakling.

So, slowly, gritting my teeth, I stood. Only then did I realize that the 'blinding light' was a solitary lantern, just bright enough to illuminate the small cave room we were in. Large enough to fit maybe twenty men shoulder to shoulder, small enough to feel like a box. Especially with the two large armoires lining one side of the room, a few woven baskets, bathing tubs, and one gray folding screen on the other side.

"Is this a... closet?" I blurted, then immediately blushed.

Elladan laughed. "You could call it that. It helps the maids and mothers not admonish us for tracking mud throughout the place."

As he said it, Elrohir and Aragorn strode to the armoires, pulling out a set of clothes for themselves, then Aragorn carried over a set for me and nodded towards the folding screen.

"We'll change on the other side and let you know when we're done."

He needn't have worried. It took me so long to get out of my filthy clothing and into the new set, with the cloth running across my mutilated flesh that the twins and Aragorn probably could've changed in and out of their clothing five times.

"I'm done," I said miserably, walking out from behind the screen, dirty and bloody clothes in tow. I dropped them in a basket, along with my cloak. I only kept my scarf, asking Elrohir to tie up and cover my hair since raising my arms called upon a hailstorm of pain.

The guard, stiff and pale, knocked on the outer door in yet another rhythm and the wooden door quickly opened into a brighter room.

Rows upon rows of swords, daggers, maces, spears, arrows... all kinds of weapons greeted me, glinting in the yellowed candlelight, their hilts reflecting back their neighbors. I froze, stunned.

An armory.

Aa another guard assessed us Elrohir stepping in front of me to obscure my awed—and easily recognizable—face.

It was simply—amazing. So many weapons congregated in one space. All polished and ready for battle. Not a single speck of dust marred the blades, albeit maybe a few chinks in the old scabbards.

Elrohir tugged me along as we were guided through the maze of such a dazzling display. The scent of metal and dampness only added to the awe.

In the middle of the room sat a collection of beautiful swords. The scabbards were all etched in mirthful, graceful designs. I couldn't stop myself from fluttering my fingers over all the exquisitely different hilts and crossbars that flowed effortlessly or jutted out proudly. Some had etchings, some nearly mimicked the shape of a leaf or a gentle stream. Carefully created pommels held my eye in fascination. Each sword held personality, something ethereal. Pure works of art.

In this room of weapons they were polished diamonds amongst a pile of dingy rocks.

I stretched out a hand to caress a fierce sword, one that seemed to tell a story of anger and sorrow—

I was tugged away and whisked out the armory door before I could even read the tengwar characters.

Right.

The hallways were more active than the quiet armory. There were hardly any people, but the atmosphere demanded a sense of urgency. There were no paintings, no vases to liven the place, just stern boards holding announcements and directions.

I barely had time to admire the sculpted, ancient-looking walls or recall upon the oh so beautiful swords as I was practically hurled down the corridor, wounds demanding attention.

There were few people we passed in the hallway—but almost all carried some form of a weapon. They all quickly moved out of the way as we twisted turns until—finally—we were before a guarded, heavy wooden door. The space inside seemed like a small sitting room, one that held a young woman, a wheeled chair next to her. A board and paper covered in designs that looked suspiciously like dresses sat in her lap. She was so engrossed in what her hand was drawing she never bothered to look up.

No one else was in the room except for two soldiers standing guard in front of another door, smaller than the one I had just passed through.

Here we stopped, the twins and Aragorn all turned to look at me.

"What?"

Elladan's lips thinned, then he turned his hard eyes to Aragorn. "She needs to be sent to a healer. Look at her face, Aragorn. She's far too pale."

Aragorn's careful eyes flitted to my face to where a red stain was seeping through my slightly too big grey shirt.

A healer, he's a healer. I could see it in the way he assessed me, looked me over.

"Can you stand and converse for twenty minutes?"

I bit my lip, pushing—unsuccessfully—the pain away. "Yes."

Aragorn nodded, turned around. "This meeting will determine whether or not you spend your time here in a cell or free."

The guards side-stepped out of the way.

"I will do as much as I can to help, but it falls on you to convince them."

Elladan stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on my arm. "Aragorn, she—!"

Aragorn twisted around violently, his brown hair shifting, gray eyes flashing. "They are listening, Elladan!" he hissed, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper.

"Almost all in command know someone who has lost a loved one to her hand. If they sense weakness or hear that we sent her to a healer before they see her, they will pounce and have no mercy. We cannot afford that. We cannot lose Lumornel again. Nor can we lose what control we have."

Aragorn and Elladan stared each other down. I felt crushed between their gazes.

"I promise I will get her out of that room as soon as I can, Elladan. Don't forget that she is my friend and that I will do whatever I can to see her safe." Aragorn's gray eyes shifted to me, as if confirming his words.

I barely had time to process what he said, to realize just how much this meeting would determine. On whether or not if I would stay here—and find Legolas, before Aragorn spoke again.

"Are you ready?"

No. "Yes."

"Hold your ground," he said, reaching up and untying my protective scarf, "and be yourself."

What does that mean? Be 'myself?' The Lumornel he knew might be completely different!

I could do nothing as my white hair fell around my shoulders, hiding my bleeding the best it could do. I did my best to steel myself, to shove every doubt about myself away.

He opened the door. Elrohir placed a hand on my lower back. Guided me into a wide room. My heart thundered.

Immediately, my palms glowed—I shoved them behind my back.

Five men. One ellon. One woman. All sitting around a table, the atmosphere sucked so dry, it was as good as kindling.

A few men shot up and out of their seats. Hatred, fear, apprehension. It all crackled in the air.

Every single eye was upon me.

I never felt more exposed.

Especially as an old man stared me down with an intent, deadly gaze. A young hunter sat so stiffly I though a breeze would snap him in two. A young aristocrat, vicious burns crawling up his jaw, stared with wide eyes.

Yet I forced myself to catalog the room for any exits—there was only the one—in case things turned sour.
But this was the Western Hope, things weren't supposed to be like that here.

And yet these people gazed upon me like I should have been chained up.

"Why have you not restrained her?"

My throat constricted.

An older aristocrat, standing rigid with animosity, pinned me with eyes filled with so much hate and remorse I was rendered immovable. "Has Gwairaith not committed crimes deserving of punishment?"

His hand had a bone-white grip on the hilt of his sword, revealing a sliver of silver.

He condemns me—without even hearing what I have to say.

Aragorn stepped forward, stood at my side. "What we thought we knew—"

"My name is not Gwaraith."

The angered man's gaze darkened. And once again, every scrutinizing eye was upon me.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"My name is Lumornel. Or at least... I think it is..."

I glanced at Elladan, who gave me an encouraging nod.

"You think?" An old man piqued, his pale eyes focusing on me. "You mean to tell me you do not grasp your own name?"

I bit my lip, glancing at the blonde woman seated just before me. Her brows were furrowed just slightly and her eyes were flitting from my body to Aragorn's. I could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes.

"... Right. I... have no memory past two months ago." I dug my nails into my sweaty palms, forcing my eyes to meet the old man's. "I've been recording everything in a journal and have learned I can remember up to a little less than a month. A week ago I could remember two months back. My memory is deteriorating and I've come here to fix it."

I glanced down, then at the man standing rigid with emotion, his hand still on his sword. "I do not go by Gwaraith because I don't believe—or at least have no memory of—doing anything bad. I know everyone believes me to be a monster, but I don't want to harm anyone, all I want is to remember who I was."

The man did not back down, a muscle in his jaw twitched. I bit my cheek, clenching my fists tighter, fearing that the wall behind me was illuminated by my light.

"If that's the case, then how do you know your name is Lumornel?" The woman, the gears still turning behind those blue eyes, asked.

I started, my piercing nails momentarily stopping their attack on my palms to touch my bracelet. "I have—"

"How do we know this is Lumornel and not an imposter?" Oldy said, his pale, watery eyes turning to pin the woman, then to the uncrowned king next to me. "Aragorn, did you not witness Lumornel die? And what about Prince Legolas? Did she not die in his arms?"

Warmth drained from my face.

Dead.

Static silence consumed me, congested my head.

Did you not witness Lumornel die? ...Did she not die in his arms?

My mind spun.

Valar.

I died... I had actually died.

How... how am I alive?

I couldn't breathe. My lungs would not except air.

Oh Eru, nothing makes sense.

"Lumornel...?" A hand tentatively touched my shoulder—then immediately withdrew as if burned.

Aragorn, grey irises concerned, held his hand to his chest, a silver ring that reflected light—

My light.

Every inch of my skin glowed softly, my light bouncing off the smooth surface of the table, the metal of the aristocrat's sword, the bowl containing berries.

"I'm sorry—" I gasped. Hurriedly spooling in the brightness, furrowing my brows in concentration. Slowly, my skin returned to its normal unradiant form. Except for the anxiety pooled in my palms.

"Oh that's Lumornel, all right," the hunter said smugly, a thick accent coating his tongue, "unless there's some other prophecy-written I wasn't told about."

"Can you manage?"

I turned to Elladan, glanced to my shaking hands. Fatigue weighed down my bones. My wounds burned and burned and burned.

But, I nodded.

I needed permission to stay here. To talk to Legolas.

His eyes hardened. "Aragorn."

"Soon."

Even as he said it, Aragorn's eyes never left mine, almost as if he was gauging how much strength I had left.

Elrohir caught my gaze. Be strong, his gray eyes seemed to say. Don't let them see you as weak.

My chin lifted, my hands relaxed at my sides. They still shone softly, but I tried to ignore it.

I had been able to hold my own when confronted by others. The only difference here was that I'm not the one in control. And so much was at stake.

So how do I gain the upper hand?

"What's your quarrel with me? I know that I've killed some good people—although I have no memory of doing so. And I have no intention of harming anyone."

I paused, meeting each and every one of their gazes. Blocked out the nerves making my palms sweat.

"If I'm a threat to you, then let me stay here where you can keep an eye on me. Keep me in a cell, or locked up in a room, but please allow me to see Legolas Thranduilion."

"So you would so willing imprison yourself here?" The old man scoffed, reaching forward to pull the bowl of berries closer to him. "Sounds like a simpleton's move to me."

My cheeks warmed. "If that's what it takes to regain my memories, then yes."

"How do you suppose you'll do that?" A weathered man queried, a hand dropping from his trimmed and close-shaven beard that just so happened to match his rusty blond hair, gray littered through it.

I turned to him, looked him in his honey russet eyes. "This bow—" I motioned to Elladan, who held it "—has the name 'Legolas Thranduilion' etched into it. Judging by what I've written in my journal, I've had this bow for a long time and can only assume Legolas gave it to me himself. So I'm hoping that he does know me, and if so, can help me regain my memories by telling them to me."

As I said the words, brows furrowed, gazes glanced away. Had I said something wrong?

"What about Lord Aragorn, can he not do that for you?" I turned to Scar-Face, and despite myself, I couldn't help but keep my gaze from catching on his mutilated jaw. From thinking about what lurked under my clothing.

"Um... well..." I turned to Aragorn, a man who I supposedly used to know, who was already looking at me.

I bit my lip, I've been searching for Legolas, my mind completely wrapped up in the idea of finding him. To suddenly change directions... but I needed my memories, to stop losing them.

But Aragorn shook his head, turning to the others in Command. "Legolas knew her better than me. His relationship with her enabled him to get to know her deeply. I'm afraid I don't have that same connection with Lumornel that he does."

Surprisingly, the stubborn old man nodded. "Indeed."

But still, faces were shadowed by something dark. Something grim.

Why?

Did it have something to do with Legolas not being "sound of mind?"

It didn't matter, I would still talk to—

"Are we not going to mention the obvious?" The standing man said, with anger still in his eyes and hand still on his sword. "It doesn't matter if she's the real Lumornel. She's believed to be dead and the ramifications of what she did before the Black Gate are still felt. The moment she steps out of here and is seen, the fear and anger she inspires will spread all throughout base! They will all only see her as Gwaraith."

"That's not true," Aragorn said softly, thunder in his voice. "There are still some who know the actions she took were of Sauron, not of her own will."

The man slipped his hand off his sword's pommel—only to clench it—and angrily sat. "Could she not have fought his control?"

"She had his ring on her finger, Dervorin! The full will of a Maia was upon her! No one, not even Galadriel herself could have fought against that kind of hold."

Valar, what had happened?

"Tell that to the majority of the population, Aragorn. It still doesn't change the fact that there is fear and anger in their hearts whenever her name is mentioned. And now?" Dervorin scoffed. "If they were to see her alive, what would they do after believing she was dead?

"He does have a point," the hunter said, his thoughtful finger moving away from his lips. "They'd ask questions. Did she never die? Why would she stay away for nine years?"

He shook his head. "If they question her, they question us."

My brows furrowed... how?

The scarred man nodded. "For those that do still see her as a symbol of hope, they would wonder why the prophecy-written has stayed away from the Western Hope. Has the organization done something that she would disapprove of? How would we answer that?

"As for those who regard her with fear, they'd guess we lied about her being dead to placate them. We'd lose their trust. And with the recent attack on Anorien, we can't afford such questions to be asked."

"Sure, but," the hunter added, talking with his hands. "We can't just send her away. Every time she's been seen, rumors find their way back here and morale falls. Our average number of new members fall."

I shifted on my feet, my wounds burning, causing me to wince. My head felt light. How much longer would this questioning last? They seemed like a group of philosophers, sitting idly around a table debating some complex question. Except these weren't soft-skinned philosophers. They bore scars, swords, calluses. They were battle-weary. Looking for a way to return to peace.

For some strange reason, something deep within me panged, twisted.

Resonated.

"Lumornel," Aragorn softly said.

Startled, I refocused my gaze. Everyone was looking at me.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, my face feeling like a skillet.

"We were discussing," the old man said, "how we are to know you have not committed the crimes we have heard of these past nine years. How are we to know that you won't do such heinous things here?"

I stared at him. Crimes?!

"I may have stolen a few food items, but I always left something behind in payment. And I've never hurt someone who wasn't attacking me."

The dark-haired elf, who was silent until now, spoke. "But how are we to know your words are true?"

"I—" don't know.

"This journal you mentioned," the ellon said. "Could we perhaps look through it?"

I glanced at Elrohir—who still held my bag. My personal feelings and experiences coated those pages. Handing that over to someone...

"No. I'm sorry, but I can't—"

"Lumornel," Elladan said, his gray eyes like storm clouds. "You need Command's permission to stay here."

I felt caught between two stones. Either lay my soul bare to a group of people I didn't even know. Or be killed.

Or worse; be cast away, left to forget everything and become mindless.

"Okay," I said softly, feeling the sickly tingle of embarrassment settle within my chest. "Give it to them."

Oh valar. I had wrote about my cycle in there.

The ellon nodded, his eyes softer, calmer than those of everyone else. Comforting. Yet something bright turned behind them, gears of thought. Then, he turned to his fellow comrades.

"May I suggest that we let Lumornel leave for the healer while we discuss what we will do for her?"

The weary man nodded, his eyes catching on the journal Elrohir now held. "She can stay in a secluded ward, with guards posted until we come to a decision."

His honey eyes met mine. And then Aragorn's. "Will you be taking her, my Lord?"

Aragorn shook his head, glancing at me. "No, one of the twins will."

Immediately, Elrohir stepped up, handing over the journal to Elladan.

"Have two of the guards go with you," Dervorin said, voice stoic. My brows furrowed, where had his anger and remorse gone?

But upon a glance, I saw that those emotions were still there, but hidden behind a mask of indifference. What had I done to him?

Elrohir touched my arm—

I immediately pulled away, then blushed. The touch of another was strange, unusual. But I guess these past nine years nobody would have been willing to touch me—without meaning harm.

His eyes softened, but still bid me go with him. And so, we left, a pair of guards in tow, towards any healer who'd be willing to heal me.

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Sorry for the long wait guys. Next chapter should be out next month. Already have a part of it written.

But anyways. Did you enjoy the chapter?

Any constructive criticism?