A/N: For neo-Khuzdul terms and translations, I'd like to thank both The Writer's Life blog and David Salo of midgardsmal dot com. Any mistakes are my own—I am in no ways an expert with the rich lore Tolkien provided us. I'd also like to give a shout out to the Dwarrow Scholar's fabulous site for all the wonderful resources. I relied heavily upon his compilation for dwarf names minus those for Bofur and Bifur's fathers. (I'd already "named" those two in my mind when doing Broken Ties and just couldn't rename them lol.)

Chapter 1

October T.A. 2928

Pain. Fear. Desperation. The bloated leeches sucked the heart from Fandes even as they compelled her feet to flee ever northward and westward.

She had to reach home. Every fiber of her being wept for it, clamoring for the distantly remembered sensation of warmth and safety. Home. That shining memory kept her feet from faltering. Her boots disintegrated, and her feet blistered and seeped fluids, yet she pressed onward. Mile upon mile, she scrambled through the wilderness, a petrified and wild animal shy of any soul she might spot on the horizon.

That person could belong to them.

Fandes slept secreted away in hollows carved out by tree roots, or she scratched ditches beneath bushes and shrubs with torn, ragged fingernails. Scavenged berries, nuts and leaves were her mainstay. She dared not risk filching more substantial fare. Word of a thief might spread and reach his ears.

Never, she swore to herself. She would never risk it. Death first. For herself and the babe distending her womb.

Her former self and past life drifted through the deepest recesses of her mind like storybook images, fleeting and beautiful but disconnected. Who was that young, chestnut-haired Dunedain woman who'd pestered her brother, Thanguron, he closest to her in age, into siding with her as she appealed to their father for permission to travel with them to the far-away lands of Gondor at Mithrandir's behest? That woman, only seventeen in age, had been so full of excitement, burbling with questions as they'd traveled past the Shire and Breeland, south to the Gap of Rohan and on into Gondor. A time of warmth and laughter, it had been. Sun and excitement.

If she'd had any inkling…

But how could she? The guilt hung heavy in her chest. Thanguron and her father would likely be alive if she hadn't accompanied them.

A part of Fandes had realized—reason too late returning to her—that her rabbit-like terror had proved a two-edged sword. It granted wings to her feet despite exhaustion and pain, yet it had also blinded her to the obvious. The Rangers of Ithilien, distant kinsman to her own people, the Dunedain of the North, would certainly have aided her if she'd only thought to seek them. They'd been infinitely nearer at hand when she'd escaped him in southern Gondor. Instead, brutalized past all endurance, her only thoughts upon escape had been of her mother's arms and her eldest brother, Barhador's, strong and protective presence.

Foolish female. The scathing condemnation hissed through her mind in his voice, and instantly, his coldly beautiful face flashed before her. Fandes recoiled with a cry, shying away from nothing but air. A violent shake of the head failed to oust the monster from her inner vision. She feared she would never be free of him.

Her grubby hands rubbed her temples, and Fandes darted a fearful look over her shoulder. All this while, as weeks had melted into months, it had seemed to her that she could feel his dark, vile presence like a thundercloud on the horizon, one that drew ever closer. The very air seemed clogged with a malevolence that dogged her footsteps with the terrifying stench of wrath.

Like his predecessors of yore, he was well versed in the dark arts. Sorcery. Fandes knew its touch first-hand.

A memory burst to life, and Fandes crashed onto her knees. She panted beyond control, a low whine winning free from the back of her throat. The evening cricket serenade and the empty ribbon of dirt road off her left shoulder vanished. Once again, she was there in a circle of candles and bloody sigils, his strong, corded body forcing her down against hard stone, his teeth biting the flesh of her shoulder and leaving a crescent wound that had scarred, both a punishment for resisting and a brand in one. Once again, she felt his dark magics like ants upon her skin, a sickly prickling sensation as his spells demanded a fertility from her body out of time with her cycles. Then, he'd…

A sudden disturbance set birds to flight in the distance. Fandes froze, one hand to her lips. Him, a part of her wailed, and terror surged through her veins.

Fandes scrambled away from the road on hands and knees, head and body low to hide in the tall grasses dominating the barren landscape. Unseen thorns and twigs gouged her face and arms. Such small discomforts had long since become of no account to her. Once hidden to the best of her ability, she bent over her bulging belly and wept.

When the moon hung high in the star-filled sky, she once more ventured forth. Fandes could not allow him to catch her. She wouldn't survive that monster's touch again with a shred of sanity intact, much less a century or more as he bred her like a broodmare, a fate she knew many daughters of Ithilien endured even now as they were trundled south to Corsair ships bound for Umbar—a land thought to be ruled by the Haradrim. What lurked there in secret was worse than the barbarians.

Against all knowledge, its lords of old had returned. They grew in strength, breeding selectively to increase their numbers. Black Nứmenóeans, summoned by their master, Sauron. They were raising an army of sorcerous monsters just like him, an army Middle Earth was in no way prepared to face.

Fandes managed a stumbling lope, a stitch claiming her lower belly. Each breath was labored. Father, I cannot do this. I'm so scared, she told her sire's shade, for his memory had kept her company many a time during this nightmarish journey, bringing with him both guilt and comfort. She pictured Erthor's lanky frame beside her, his long legs eating up the ground with an easy jog. His bow protruded over one shoulder, and his long-sword was strapped to his waist where it belonged, no longer separated from his remains by the one who'd murdered him and raped his daughter.

This…this childish fancy was the sole comfort left to Fandes. Tonight, she felt Erthor's presence keenly, dispelling a measure of the oppressive blanket of terror that was her constant burden.

You can do this, my sweet daughter, he seemed to say in his rich tenor. He could well have been a minstrel. Fandes's mother, Aendes, had often proclaimed as much, for Erthor's voice had been liquid gold, a throwback to their distant elven ancestors. Not too far now, and you can rest, my Fandes, he promised.

Rest? The illusion of him was dispelled, leaving Fandes in cloying bitterness. Should some miracle occur and she reach home, still she doubted that she'd know either safety or rest again. He would never relent, never let her go. Even discounting the babe and Fandes's coveted bloodline, a bloodline he swore untainted by the blood of lesser men, his pride must be pricked. She'd humiliated him before his peers by not only escaping but eluding him for months. She'd outwitted him, and that he would never let stand.

The thought of his terrible retribution should he ever lay hands upon her again was enough motivation to keep her jogging long after the stitch in her belly developed jagged teeth and gnawed across her abdomen with glee. It was only as a sudden gush of liquid splattered down her legs that she realized the truth. The babe was coming.

The crushing realization of failure nearly dropped her to her knees. Fandes swayed, eyes blindly locked upon the puddle between her feet. She wouldn't be able to warn her people that Mithrandir's fears were correct—a Shadow was stealing over Gondor. Mordor's engines of war were preparing in secret.

The Rangers of Ithilien would realize…wouldn't they? Surely they would send word to the Gray Wizard. They must. But would they recognize the danger in time?

Ai, but who would sound the alarm that the accursed Black Númenóreans had returned, too? Who knew of this but Fandes and the captive women headed for Umbar?

Fandes tried to ignore her body and press onward, but as hours passed, the battle turned ever against her. Labor was a ravening beast in its own right, and it would not be denied. Fandes clumsily dragged herself deeper into the brush when her legs would support her no longer. A hiding place. She needed a hiding—

A pain more intense than any of its predecessors ripped through her womb. Her forehead dropped onto one arm as she panted and whimpered, any hope of her happy ending turning to bitter ashes. She would not see Aendes again, nor Barhador. The babe would either die here in the wilderness or, if her instincts proved true and he was near, it would be claimed and groomed into a dark creature just like its father. And Fandes… Her future should she survive unfolded before her with graphic and chilling clarity.

Eru… Devoid of hope from that source, for He'd not intervened to spare her father or brother, Fandes prayed for death. Surely there was a chance childbirth would save child and mother both, for it could not be past October. The babe was nearly a month early. Mandos, hear my plea…