I stopped running and wiped the sweat off my brow, sliding my pack off my back and sitting on the ground. Looking up at the position of the fading sun, I noted that I was just north of the Ford leading to Rivendell. I took a strip of dried meat out of my traveling bag and ate, planning out my next move.

My name is Íverin, and I am a daughter of both Elves and Men. I am a half-blood, with my father being of Osgiliath, of Gondor, and my mother being a Wood-Elf, but whose place of birth I never really knew. It is dangerous, to be who I am. Gondor has exiled me because of a decision which was not mine, so now I have only the Elves to look to for support. A long time ago, just after my birth, my family was attacked by bandits, and there my mother was slain.

Staring into the trees around me, I sighed. I had been searching for them for days. Where could they be? Sweeping my fringed chestnut brown bangs to the side, I took in the familiar scenery around me. If I wished, I could easily head east and return to Rivendell; to the safety of my home. But I could not, I would not return to Lord Elrond with failure. That was not an option.

Not too long after the bandit attack, my father and I fled to Minas Tirith, but within a month's time he came down with a horrible illness that had no cure at the time. Fearing that the growing power of the Dark Lord Sauron would come to Gondor and for my safety, he sent me to live with the Elves in a land called Rivendell (Imladris to its natives). Shortly after I was taken away, he died. This all happened in less than a year.

My eyes, green with a small burst of brown around the pupils, flicked back and forth between the trees, and I stood deathly still, listening and watching for any sign of human life other than my own. Not only did I fear for the Halflings that were wandering through the woodlands, I was worried about Estel. He was an excellent Ranger, possibly the best there was, but even he could not compete with the evil that hunted them.

Upon arrival at Rivendell, Lord Elrond, the ruler of the fair land, had taken me in, declaring himself my foster-uncle. Elrond himself had three blood children: Arwen, his daughter, Elladan and Elrohir, the twins, and one foster-son, whom he had named Estel. The four of them were my cousins, but we treated each other like brothers and sisters growing up. I was the baby of the family, with the twins being the oldest. Arwen was like the sister I'd never had; we did almost everything together.

After finishing off my meat, I reached for my flask of water and took a drink. Glancing into my pack, I frowned. Even if I did manage to find them, I likely wouldn't have enough food for all six of us. I could only hope they were healthy enough to fend for themselves. I shouldered my pack again and set off, placing a hand on the sword that hung from my belt. Slipping silently through the trees, I headed west. I would go as far as I had to if my cousin was in need.

Many, many years after I had arrived in Rivendell, Estel left us to go live with the northern Rangers. It had broken my heart to see him go, but after I learned from Elrond about his past, I was able to deal with the grief. After all, it was his life, not mine. Who was I to command him, telling him where he could and couldn't go?

Suddenly, I stopped. My ears picked up the faint sound of a horse headed my way. Immediately I threw my supplies to the side, behind a large pile of rocks, and sprang up into the nearest tree, fitting an arrow to my bow as I crouched on the branch. My heart pounded, adrenaline racing through me. Normally, one would be scared of what could be coming up on them in the dusk. But not me. Elrond had always said I was strange in that way, the way I loved fighting. I always corrected him, saying it was not just fighting. It was defending those I loved, and feeling victorious that I liked so much.

Now how, you may ask, can I remember all this information? How is it that something over a thousand years ago can be so clear to me? The answer: It is not. I remember absolutely nothing from my childhood, save for some of the years spent in Rivendell. I learned this from Elrond, who told me everything the eve of my eighteenth birthday. After that, I felt like a misfit. Like I would only bring trouble to those around me. So I left the beautiful Elf city, escaping into the woods I loved so much for a few years. Eventually, I realized I simply was not ready yet to live on my own, so I returned, hoping my former family would still love me. They did, of course, and I lived there happily ever since. Well... almost.

The sound of hoof beats drew nearer. I licked my lips and tensed, ready to release my arrow, making sure I was perfectly aimed. I had never seen a black rider before, and I had never hoped to, so I could not place an image with the name of the creature that echoed in my mind. Whether that was for the better or worse, I didn't know.

One day, I returned to Minas Tirith, sent by Estel, seeking news of a creature known as Gollum, whom he had been hunting for quite some time. I had expected to see a friendly face or two, but instead, I found myself prohibited from entering. The guards I had been born with scowled upon seeing my face, throwing me away from the gates. I still remember the thud I made and the pain that ripped up my shoulder as I hit the hard ground. I was an outcast for 'disloyalty to the White City.' I tried to argue that I had not abandoned them, that my father had sent me away, but they wouldn't listen. So I returned home, and a cold hate has been in my heart towards Gondor ever since.