A girl ran through the carnage of a battle, past countless bodies that showed the scale of the slaughter that her father had been tricked, lured into by his own advisor.

The Orcs lay upon the battle in their thousands; they had lain in wait for this moment. The moment when they could take their revenge, how ever great their own loss would be.

Suddenly an Orc that had pretended to be dead grabbed her booted foot and spun her ankle round, landing her on her arse in the mud.

She pulled out a long, thin dagger and sliced his hand off, ending his life with a slash across his upturned throat.

Standing, she bolted on.

Her father had not been with his surviving captains at the end of the battle, he should have been, and even now they were searching for him, combing the battle field to find him.

But she knew, deep down, that she, the king’s daughter, the princess of Gondor, would be the last to see him alive.

She shuddered and ran forwards, searching for him.

Then she saw him, the first king Gondor had known in many aeons, laying sprawled on the battle field, a dagger buried in his chest.

A strangled sob escaped her and she charged forward.

“Arawen,” whispered her dying father. The girl called Arawen dropped down beside him. “Arawen-” he held out a box and opened the lid revealing a slim band of white gold with a sapphire set in it. “You have a chance, child, to right the wrongs of the world.” Arawen took the ring in her hands, and her father drew his last breath.

King Aragorn was dead…

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