Author’s Note: Sorry this is taking me so long.  I’m at a crazy-busy internship with really sporadic internet access.  I promise I’m trying!

Chapter One: Bonds That Can’t Be Broken

Ten years later

The proud City of Gondor sat in splendor, shimmering in the revealing light of the late afternoon sun.  Along its walls, only the black forms of sentinels and watchmen marred its white beauty.  However, two of the dark figures atop the noble wall were neither sentinel nor watchman.

“You seem weary, my beloved.”  The voice was low and gentle, like waves on the sea, and spoke in a language few mortal men comprehended.

“Indeed I am, my Lady Undómiel,” King Elessar replied in the same tongue to his elven wife.  “I am weary of the endless meetings and diplomatic discussions.  I long...”  He trailed off, realizing that he was complaining, an action he despised in others.

Arwen finished his thought.  “You long to be Strider once more, roaming freely about Middle Earth doing battle yourself rather than ordering others into battle.”

An almost physical feeling of warmth washed through the king’s body at his wife’s words.  She understands, he realized.  Gratefully, he drew her into a firm embrace.  “Indeed, my lady.  You have voiced my thoughts to perfection.”

Youthful laughter drew the couple’s eyes away from each other and toward the open field beyond the castle wall.  A jet-black mare whinnied in pure joy as she spun and capered about the field.  Her rider, a fifteen-year-old maiden with hair the color of her steed’s coat, tossed back her head and laughed once more.  Clearly, the girl was engaged in a game, as two other maids, also on horseback, chased her ruthlessly about the field.  However, the dark-haired girl and her equally dark horse eluded their pursuers time after time.

Upon the wall, the King and Queen of Gondor gazed into each others’ eyes once more, smiles lighting both their faces.

“It gives my soul rest to see her so happy,” Aragorn commented.

“Though you wish you could ride alongside her,” Arwen added.

“You read my mind, beautiful lady.”

Eyes still locked onto Arwen’s, Aragorn leaned forward, eager to kiss his beautiful wife.

“My lord!  My lady!”

A sigh of exasperation and regret passed Aragorn’s lips as he pulled away.  When he saw who had interrupted him, he gave a mock-glare.  “Legolas, could you possibly have waited another minute to interrupt my conversation with my wife?”

Legolas’ pale eyes flickered with a mischievous light.  “My lord, it would not have been appropriate for me to interrupt your...erm...”conversation” a minute from now.  I believe I have chosen the most…opportune moment.”

The elf’s calm – and infuriatingly logical – response brought a hint of a smile to Aragorn’s face.  “I fear you speak the truth, my friend,” he stated, “though I do wish you were wrong.”

Dropping the topic before the blush on Arwen’s pale face grew any deeper, Legolas rested his palms on the top of the wall and surveyed the countryside beyond.  His gaze, too, was drawn to the dark-haired young woman who rode in the field.  “Dómiel has grown into a beautiful young woman,” he observed.

Aragorn replied, “She has become extremely attached to that saddle you gave her.  It is quite difficult to convince her to come inside at all, even to dine!”

“The horse beneath her gives her freedom,” Legolas said thoughtfully.  “She possesses, I fear, far too independent a spirit to be bound to a chair.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn replied sadly.  “I wish there was a way for her spirit to move her body – she would be able to fly!”

“Fly she cannot,” Legolas said, “but she can at least ride.”

“And does – often,” Arwen added.  Then, turning to her husband, she said, “My lord, we should go now to dress for supper.”

“Go ahead,” Aragorn replied.  “I shall join you in a moment.”

“I shall see you again at supper, Legolas,” Arwen said in farewell.

“I look forward to it, my lady,” the fair-haired elf replied with a bow.

As his queen breezed from the wall-top, Aragorn turned his attention once more to his daughter’s form on the field below.  “Dómiel!” he called loudly.

At the call, the dark-haired girl turned her face up to her father.

Wordlessly, Aragorn gestured towards the palace.

Obediently, Dómiel called to her maids, turned her mount, and trotted toward the gates.

“If you will excuse me,” the king said to Legolas, “I must send for her bearer.”

“Oh, do not disturb Vandor, my lord!” the elf protested immediately, referring to the man-servant hired by the royal family for one purpose – to serve as Princess Dómiel‘s legs.  At Aragorn’s curious look, he explained, “I passed the man on my way to meet you.  I fear he sleeps – quite soundly, I might add – in the courtyard.  I shall go fetch the little one, if you give your permission.”

“I do, indeed,” Aragorn replied.  “I am certain Dómiel shall be happy to spend a few minutes’ time with you, as it has been so long since she has seen you.”  The last words were spoken with a mild rebuke.

“As they say, ‘absence doth make a fonder heart,’” Legolas replied with a mischievous bow.

Laughter lurking in his eyes, Aragorn watched the elf speed off into the beginning twilight, silent as a shadow.  Shaking his head in amusement, he turned his own steps toward his chambers.

When Legolas reached the stable, he found the princess’ party just arriving.  Slipping from the shadows, he bowed slightly and said, “Greetings, Lady Dómiel.”

Dómiel visibly started, clearly not having sensed Legolas’ approach.  “My lord!” she exclaimed upon seeing the elf.  “I did not expect to see you here.”

“I had no intentions of startling you,” Legolas responded gently.  “If you permit me, I have the honor of...escorting you back to the palace.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across the girl’s face at Legolas’ choice of words.  “Of course I shall permit you.  What else could I say, when such a noble elf asks so gallantly?”  With an ease that bespoke of long practice, Dómiel pulled two straps that lay crossed in front of her, and the straps that secured her twisted legs against the mare’s side released.  Carefully, the girl pressed her palms against the front of the saddle, lifting her torso, and maneuvered her right leg free from its place on the sidesaddle.

Impressed, Legolas noted with satisfaction that the black mare had not so much as twitched during the entire awkward procedure.  Gently, he reached up and eased the princess into his arms.

“Thank you, and do ensure she is well rubbed down,” Dómiel said to the groom who held the horse.

“I always do, my lady!” the groom replied cheerfully as he led the mare toward the stables.

“I do appreciate your willingness to assist me, Lord Legolas,” the girl said, switching to Sindarin, a language she had been brought up with, due to her parentage, “and it is wonderful to see you again.”  After a moment’s thought, she added, “I do not believe I have ever extended my gratitude to you or Lord Gimli for the saddle you crafted for me.”  Dómiel knew that her thanks were long overdue, but she was also aware that the years meant little to the elf.

If it were possible for a full-blooded elf to blush, Legolas would have.  “Your father thanked me sufficiently when the gift was given,” he informed her a bit curtly.

“Yet, I have not,” Dómiel insisted stubbornly.  “You have my undying gratitude, my lord, for gifting me with freedom.”

“You are quite welcome, little one,” Legolas replied, “and I shall pass on your thanks to Master Gimli the next time our paths cross.”

“Thank you again,” Dómiel responded with a smile.  “Ah, these are my chambers,” she informed him even as one of her maids slipped in front of Legolas and opened a door.  “If you would be so kind as to place me on the couch inside...”

“Of course.”  Legolas strode into the beautifully decorated chamber and set the princess down softly on the large, cushioned couch.  “I shall see you at supper, then, my lady?”  The elf switched to the common Westron for the benefit of the two maids who lingered in the shadows.

“I look forward to it, my lord,” Dómiel replied formally in the same language, bowing easily from her seated position.

With a final bow himself, Legolas exited the room.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Estel,” Legolas asked later that evening at the meal, “may I ask when your son is to return?”

“His hunting party is to return within four day’s time,” Aragorn replied.  “I fear you missed them by only a matter of hours.  In fact, I am surprised you did not come upon the party ere you arrived.”

“It should come as no great surprise, as I do not travel by the roads,” Legolas reminded his friend.

“You will stay long enough to greet them when they return, will you not?” Arwen asked from Aragorn’s far side.

“If the Lady wishes it,” Legolas replied gallantly.

“Indeed, I do.  It has been long since you visited our land, friend, and we would not wish to lose the pleasure of your company so swiftly.”  Arwen’s voice was low and sincere.

“Then, by the King’s leave, I shall remain here ‘til then, at least,” Legolas decided.

“The doors of my home are always open to you, Legolas,” Aragorn reminded him.

Then, one of the nobles seated further down the table, beyond the queen, asked a question, and the King’s attention turned away from his guest.

Quite content to listen, Legolas turned his own gaze towards his food and tuned his elven hearing in to the conversations around him.  The princess Dómiel, seated beside him had piqued his curiosity, and he spent some minutes listening to the soft conversation between her and the Steward Faramir who sat on her other side.  He was pleased to note that the girl had clearly been well-trained in the art of conversation, as she spoke with intelligence and insight.  Of course, I would expect no less from Arwen’s daughter, he mused.  Just as I suspect that, even in her crippled state, she has learned something of weaponry from her father…

“My lady,” he said, gaining Dómiel’s attention.  “I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity on a point.”

She replied, “My lord, please call me Dómiel.”

Legolas nodded.  “Dómiel, then.  I am curious to know if your training has included anything of the arts of sword or bow?”

Dómiel laughed softly, a clear laugh that left an impression of frequent use.  “Indeed it has.  I am utterly unproficient with the bow, but I have learned to use a dagger, as my father insists that I carry one when I leave the city walls.”

At that moment, Arwen called Legolas’ name, turning his attention to the other side of the table.  Suddenly, the fair-haired elf heard a swift intake of breath akin to a stifled gasp of pain, though the sound was too soft to be heard by any but elven ears.  Turning quickly, he saw Dómiel close her eyes for a brief moment.  When she opened them again, no sign of discomfort was written upon her face, but Legolas was certain enough of what he heard to keep a very sharp eye on the princess.

Minutes later, Dómiel shifted positions slightly and, once again, made a slight sound of pain.  This time, however, she allowed nothing to show on her face.

Legolas leaned a bit closer to her and commented quietly, “Many years ago, you informed me that your injuries do not pain you.”

“They do not, my lord,” Dómiel replied innocently.

“Unless, of course, she attempts to walk,” Aragorn said reprovingly, demonstrating his incredible knack for hearing every conversation that took place within fifteen feet of him.

Biting her lip, Dómiel looked away.  Switching to Sindarin for more privacy, she said, “’Tis true, I did attempt to walk a few times today, though only across my chamber.”

Aragorn shook his head.  This was clearly a debate familiar to both parties.  Following his daughter‘s shift in languages, he said, “If you were to simply ask your maids to fetch things for you...”

“My maids have quite enough to do.  I cannot be bound to a couch all the time!”  Suddenly, Dómiel remembered the presence of their guest.  “My apologies, my lord Legolas,” she said, still in Sindarin.  “My father and I have a...difference of opinion on this matter.”

“Do not feel you must explain,” Legolas replied.

“Thank you.”

Later that evening, just before Legolas retired to the quarters Aragorn had set aside for him, he asked his old friend, “Does Dómiel attempt to walk often?”

“Often enough,” Aragorn replied softly.  “She refuses to be ‘bound,’ as she says, to a sitting position, but walking, even though she supports herself mostly with her hands, is painful for her.”

“And to you,” Legolas added astutely.

“And to me,” Aragorn acknowledged honestly.  “I simply do not wish her to do any further damage to herself.”  Shaking his head, he dragged his mind back to the present.  “But now is not the time for such talk.  Sleep well, my friend.”

“The same to you,” Legolas replied.  However, after the king had left, the elf made his way to the top of the wall and spent many hours gazing at the stars, his mind and heart filled with sorrow for his dear friend and his free-spirited, crippled daughter.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dómiel sighed impatiently as she waited for the guards to mount their horses.  The small, patient part of her mind lectured her, reminding her that she was always set atop her mount before the soldiers had even finished preparing theirs for the ride.  Still, the young princess longed to be free of the city, riding off across the countryside.

Soon, though not soon enough as far as she was concerned, her small escort was prepared, and the party set off.

Once free of the walls, Dómiel set a rapid pace, reveling in the simple pleasure of wind blowing briskly across her face and through her long, loose hair.  Leaning forward over her mare’s shoulders, she smiled mischievously and began whispering in Sindarin.  The horse responded immediately by shifting to a full-out run.  Behind her, Dómiel could hear the soldiers of her escort and the maid who accompanied her spurring their horses on in a desperate attempt to keep up with the princess.

After several minutes, Dómiel slowed her mount, allowing the rest of the party to catch up with her.  Turning her face to the warm sun, she gave the mare her head and allowed her to meander wherever she pleased.

The escort quickly resumed their usual position behind the princess, allowing her to dictate both course and speed, as they always did.  As riding was the only form of freedom Dómiel had, she was wont to go out on horseback as often as her studies and other duties would allow.  These expeditions into the countryside occurred about twice weekly, with a small group of three or four soldiers assigned to escort her.

Far too soon for the princess’ taste, Dómiel’s maid reminded her that the time had come to turn back toward the city.  She had led the group out fairly far, and it would take nearly a half hour to return by the most direct route.  Reluctantly, the dark-haired maiden turned her mare.

Without warning, the mare halted in her tracks, forcing Dómiel to catch hold of the animal’s mane to keep her balance.  Gently, the girl began speaking to the horse in Sindarin, coaxing her to continue.  The mare shook her head and refused.

Only then did Dómiel’s sharp ears pick out the soft sounds of standing horses.  “Men are hiding here,” she hissed to her escort.

As one, the soldiers drew their weapons.

Suddenly, a group of about twenty men on horseback appeared on both sides of the path, hemming the group in.

“Princess!  Go!” the officer in charge of the escort cried.

Spotting a weak place in the attacking formation, Dómiel turned her horse once more and galloped full-steam toward it.  Miraculously, she broke through!  Obeying the officer, though reluctantly, she spurred her mare on with her voice and rode for the city.

She had not ridden more than a few yards when another group of six armed men on horseback seemed to explode from the trees. Three of them had bows in hand, arrows drawn back and aimed directly at her.  The other three held naked swords in readiness.

Unarmed save for the dagger at her belt and hopelessly outnumbered, Dómiel drew her mount to a complete halt.  Slowly, she took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to face the man who approached her, face completely calm.  One thought flickered in her mind – Do not show fear.

“Greetings, my lady,” the man sneered, transforming the title into a curse.

Dómiel remained silent and proud.

“I would suggest that you not move, princess,” the man ordered as he removed the dagger from the sheath at her side and stuck it into his own belt.

Dómiel obeyed unwillingly, as one of the archers now had an drawn arrow within inches of her throat.  “What do you want with me?” she asked calmly.

“You shall discover that all too soon.”  The commander – for so he seemed to be – seized the release cords for the straps that supported her legs, doubled them over, and knotted them firmly, making it impossible for Dómiel to leave her saddle.

Rage rose in the princess as she realized this man had somehow obtained access to the saddle before this.  Someone in the stables had betrayed her!

The commander quickly knotted her reins together and draped them over the horse’s neck.  Then, pulling a piece of rope from his robe, he seized Dómiel’s hands and began binding them together in front of her.  When he touched her, Dómiel flinched and yanked her hands from his grip, but a sudden touch of cool metal to her throat reminded her of the archer, and she relaxed her hands, allowing them to be roughly bound.  After attaching a leading rope to her mare’s bridle, the commander sneered, “Do not cry out, princess, or I shall be forced to do something you will regret.  And, remember, the archers ride behind you.”  With this, he trotted off, away from the city, Dómiel’s horse in tow.

As her captors led her away, a single tear slipped through Dómiel’s emotional wall and rolled down her face.