In which Lorna meets Thranduil, epic miscommunication ensues, the architecture seems to want to kill her, and she gets to deal with all the fun of nicotine withdrawal in a tiny prison cell.

Lorna wished she wasn't about three breaths away from keeling over, because this place was goddamn beautiful.

There were, she knew, many beautiful things and places in the world, though she'd seen almost none of them in person, but never had she even seen pictures of anything quite like this. Had she been a more sentimental sort of person, it might well have moved her to tears, and even as it was, she couldn't help staring like a child. Whatever her redheaded companion had given her had cleared enough of her pain to allow her to fully take in the true magnificence of her surroundings. These carved pillars were what the forest outside ought to look like, the branches and leaves so delicate that she didn't know how they could have done it. Somehow, the air was fresher in here, too, smelling of moss and clean earth rather than mildew. How many people could fit in a place like this? And while she was on the subject, who were they, and what were they?

Because, now that she had something like proper light to see by, she noted that they all had pointed ears. When she had more energy to devote to things like, well, thinking, she would wonder about that; for now, not falling on her face was her highest priority. At this point, she didn't care if they sent her to a dungeon or a doctor, so long as she got to sit down soon. The bandage on her forehead felt damp, which suggested the wound had opened up again, and there was a worrying wetness at her right side, too. Her chest hurt, her left shoulder was on fire, and she would absolutely murder someone if it meant she could get her hands on some Vicoden.

Most of the group broke off after a while, leaving her with her red-haired maybe-friend, and the man who had first pointed an arrow at him. Both of them looked uneasy, which did not fill her with anything remotely resembling confidence.

"Dartha," the woman said, as though expecting her to actually understand. Not knowing what else to do, Lorna stayed put, finally daring to sit down. The floor was stone, but she didn't care; just being off her feet was wonderful. Forcing her left arm to move wasn't fun, but she needed to know what the hell was going on with her right side.

As she'd suspected, her fingers came away bloody. She had to already be dead, because otherwise she would have died by now, right? That sort of made sense. To her, at least.

She looked up – very far up – at her remaining companion. He was looking down at her with disapproval, but she was too tired to flip him off. He probably wouldn't understand the gesture anyway. "Oh, don't give me that look," she said, not caring that he'd have no idea what she was saying. "I doubt you'd look any better, if you'd had the day I've just put up with." It wasn't just crashing through the windscreen; there had been a fairly protracted fight with the Men in Grey, which had at least ended worse for them than it had for her and her friend.

Her friend. She was ashamed, now, that she didn't know his name. Could he have landed here with her? Or had they caught him back there? Honestly, she wasn't sure which prospect was worse. At least if he was in the forest he had a chance of survival, but most people were fairly sure the Men in Grey killed their captives. Certainly, nobody was ever seen again once they'd been nabbed by the MiG.

Even now, tired as she was, her head was quiet. She didn't know if it was because her curse was gone, or because all these people were something other than human, but she'd take what she could get.

The woman reappeared, looking grim, and beckoned Lorna to her feet. She looked ready to say something, but probably realized that there was no point. Lorna followed her up a flight of steps that seemed far too long, her gait uneven, going ever slower, until they reached a large flat space with an honest-to-God throne. There were the antlers of some giant something hung above it – elk? Moose? She didn't know nearly enough about wildlife, but whatever they belonged to, it was big. And seated on the throne was possibly the creepiest person she had ever seen.

Oh, he was pretty, like everybody else she'd found here, but his eyes were so pale that they reminded her of nothing so much as a zombie. They looked at her with a kind of haughty arrogance, as though she were some insignificant animal, but Lorna was well used to being looked at like that. It was irritating, but not worth getting pissed off over even when she wasn't being held up by a combination of stubbornness and adrenaline.

"Heniach nin?" he asked, staring down his nose at her.

"Nope," she said, with a shrug and a wince. "My name is Lorna, I don't know how I got here, and I'm pretty sure I'm either going to fall apart or bleed to death all over your floor, whichever happens first."

The woman said something, rapid fire, and damn did that language sound like Welsh, even though it obviously wasn't. Lorna turned her head enough to look up at her, and found her face pale and tight. Well, fuck.

"You're not gonna kill me or something, are you?" she asked. "I mean, assuming I'm not actually dead and just haven't realized it yet."

She had no idea what the woman had said, but the king – and he had to be a king, because really, who else dressed like that and sat on a throne – was looking at her with a curiosity she wasn't sure she liked. She didn't particularly care if someone looked at her like she was a bug, so long as they didn't try to pull her legs off. "Man le?" he asked, standing.

Jesus bloody Christ, he was tall. At not quite five feet, Lorna was more than used to being the shortest person in any given room by far, but this bloke had to be six-five, at least. She had a deeply-ingrained hatred of tall people that, while not at all his fault, was not helping anything. She scowled up at him, irrationally offended by his height. "I don't understand you, and I'm not going to. You're right terrifying, by the way. Not that you probably need to be told that." Just watching him was making her head hurt again – she could hear nothing, but his very presence was like a band round her brain. There was something off about him, something stranger than anything about the others….

His face. What was with his face? It was pale, and inhumanly smooth, like a mask, but there was something else, something she could almost see, if only he would turn his head – oh, damn.

"Holy shit, what happened to you?" she asked, despite knowing he wouldn't understand her. She touched her own face in silent sympathy. It was a wound, and a horrible one, but it was somehow there yet not there, and Christ, now was she hallucinating? Had she really hit her head that hard?

He couldn't understand her words, but he must have read her gestures, for he froze. What little color his face had drained from it, and the glare he bent on her could have withered grass.

"Mana quentel?" he snarled, advancing on her with a grace that was disturbing.

"Hold the fuck up," she said, raising both her hands. "It was just a question. Don't you fuckin' look at me like that – I don't care if y' are a zombie, I'll bloody well bite your kneecaps off if you don't take a goddamn step back." Well, now she was scared approximately shitless, but very bad, lifelong habit morphed her fear into good old Irish rage. "I knew a guy who lost an eye once. He'd stick marbles in it, different for every day've the week, and so help me God if you don't stop you'll feel my bloody boot up your arse."

God, her head hurt worse by the second, with every step he took toward her. The son of a bitch towered over her, and didn't seem to care that she had no idea at all what was coming out of his mouth. "All right, mate, I warned you," she snapped, and kicked him – hard.

Her boots were one of the few possessions she'd managed to keep during her flight from Ireland. They were heavy-duty, steel-toed construction worker's boots, and she had likely broken at least one shin with them already. It didn't feel like she'd broken his, but he looked ready to murder her nonetheless. On balance, she couldn't exactly blame him, but still.

"I don't know what your damage is," she snapped, "and I don't really care. I was trying to have some sympathy, y' twat, but I'll not make that mistake again. Now back the fuck off." She glared up at him through the frizzy tangle of her fringe, and wondered if she was about to die.

To her own surprise, apparently she wasn't. He didn't step back, but nor did he make any move to harm her. He just stared at her with those ungodly eyes, the left of which went from pale blue to blank white and back again, and God, was her head about to split? Even now she heard nothing, saw nothing that was not her own, but it was like his very presence had grabbed her brain and squeezed it—

Sod it all, her consciousness said, and finally gave up.

Tauriel genuinely had no idea what had just happened. Never, ever had she seen her king so infuriated, and she had no idea why.

Nor did she dare ask. She caught the Edain woman before she could hit the floor – her head was bleeding again – and waited in petrified silence for her king to do or say something.

"Who told her?" he asked, the words a soft, deadly whisper.

"Told her what, my lord?"

He looked at her sharply, as though trying to read her very fëa, but he must have realized she honestly had no idea what he meant.

"Put her in the dungeon," he said. "I will decide what to do with her later." He turned on his heel, stalking down the staircase.

"My lord, she needs a healer," Tauriel called after him.

"So send one to the dungeon. I do not want her at liberty in my kingdom."

Tauriel glanced at Faelon, who looked every bit as terrified as she felt. "To the dungeon, then," she said, lifting the Edain into her arms. The woman was surprisingly heavy for her small size; she was likely more muscled than she appeared. Whatever she had said or done to provoke the King, she had not done it intentionally, if her initial reaction was any indication. She'd been terrified, too, and Tauriel couldn't blame her; she could not imagine what King Thranduil must look like to an Edain. He was intimidating enough even to his own subjects. Had the woman not reacted with violence, she might not be ending her day in the dungeons – but then, perhaps nothing could have prevented that. For it was not only anger that had blazed in the King's eyes.

It was fear, too.

When Lorna woke, she had no idea where she was. And she was riding a high so steep that she didn't really care.

She opened her eyes and found herself confronted by a stone ceiling. Whatever she was lying on was soft enough – certainly softer than the van she'd been living in the last two months – and she was warm, clean, and dry, all of which were bonuses her life did not often have all at once.

She lifted her head, waiting for a stab of pain, and was relieved when there was none. Her little room had no windows, and the only door was made of iron bars. Prison again. Brilliant.

Very carefully she sat up, dislodging the heavy blanket that had been laid over her. Her clothes had been taken – she pitied the poor bastard tasked with that job, as it had been over a week since she could afford to do laundry – and been replaced with some kind of thick green nightgown or dress. When she swung her bare feet to the floor, it proved to be at least six inches too long.

Her head didn't hurt, but neither did her ribs or shoulder, and she'd dislocated it enough to know that it ought to be sore no matter how many painkillers she'd been pumped full of. In fact, none of her usual aches and twinges were to be found – and she had quite a few, despite her age, thanks to a lifetime of hard living.

She tiptoed to the door of her cell, peering out. There was a damn waterfall outside, and the sound of its rushing was soothing. If she had to land in prison again, at least this was a sight prettier than her first stint.

She spotted a guard outside, and gave him a small wave. It was probably best to appear as harmless as possible, if she was ever to get out of here. Although, if it was a choice between the cell and a forest full of bloody great spiders, she'd pick the cell, thank you very much.

Where the hell was she? Oh, the world had got weird as hell the last six months, but this was well beyond weird. This was unreal.

Oh, Christ, what if it really was unreal? There were other people out there like her – it stood to reason that at least a few of them actually knew how to use their curse. What if this all seemed so real because it was being constructed for her by someone else, and her body was comatose in a military bunker somewhere?

The thought was so horrifying that it drove her to her knees, because she had no way of knowing. Were her actions even her own? Well, okay, she hadn't done anything glaringly unlike her yet, but if everyone and everything around her was being controlled by someone else…

"Oh," she said softly, "shite."

Thranduil had given orders that he be notified whenever the Edain woman woke. He had questions, and they were going to be answered.

He'd summoned the eldest of his lore-masters, an ellon who knew nearly every tongue that had ever been spoken in Middle-Earth. The woman's complexion suggested she might be some manner of Southron, though her facial features and eyes were wrong for it.

How had she discerned what lay beneath the surface of his skin? Very few now living knew of it; even Legolas did not. Somehow she had seen or sensed it, and it had left her stricken – as well it should.

Given the report the healers had brought him, he was rather surprised she had lived through the night – that she had even survived the march back to his halls. Four broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured skull – Edain were not normally so resilient. Perhaps Tauriel was right in speculating that she had Dúnedain blood.

She looked well enough when the guards brought her to his study, dressed in clothes that were all far too big for her. He did not wonder why Faelon had thought her a child at a distance. Yes, physically she looked fine, but her expression was deeply, deeply disturbed. Just how old was she? With Edain, it was so difficult to tell. Certainly nowhere near as old as her wild hair would suggest. There were few lines on her face, though it had clearly seen its share of weather. Her eyes were no aid in guessing; they were so vivid a green as to be unsettling rather than anything approaching pleasant.

She sat when he bade her, still looking so troubled that he wondered if she even fully registered she had been spoken to. The look she bent on him was one he could only describe as existential anguish, and he wondered what had caused it.

"I am bringing my lore-master to speak with you," he said, despite knowing she would not understand a word. "What you tell him will determine your fate."

She winced when he approached, pressing the heel of her left hand to her temple, and he stopped. Could it be that his proximity caused her actual, physical pain? He stepped forward again and she pressed harder, giving him a tired glare. What she said needed no translation: stop.

Stop he did, returning to the far side of the table. That was not a test that should be conducted until after she had spoken with Idhrenion. Sure enough, the pain faded from her expression once he was at a distance again. It would be fascinating if it were not so unsettling.

"There is something wrong with you, Edain woman," he said. "Ettelëa do I name you – Stranger. I detest mysteries within my kingdom."

She glared at him again, but it was halfhearted; she was still obviously deeply troubled, and something told him it had nothing whatsoever to do with him. He found that oddly irksome, since he was certainly more than troubled by her.

Idhrenion chose that moment to enter, saving him from his thoughts. The ellon had served Thranduil's father before him, and had been as irascible then as he was now – though at the moment he was also visibly curious.

"Is this the Edain woman?" he asked, eying her critically. "Are we sure she is a woman? I didn't realize they could be so…small."

She might not know what he was saying, but she must have guessed, for the look she gave him was thoroughly unimpressed. When she spoke, her tone was flat and sarcastic, as well as weary.

"Do you know her tongue?" Thranduil asked.

"No," Idhrenion said, his curiosity turning to fascination. "Child, what is your name?"

She sighed, and launched into a long speech that seemed to contain a great deal of invective. The truly interesting thing was that she seemed to be switching languages, as though trying to do with them what they meant to do with her. Idhrenion's presence seemed to pain her as much as Thranduil's, if her expression was any indication.

Their failure to understand made her more agitated by the moment, until she hopped off the chair and started pacing the floor. Thranduil noted with some amusement that the hem of her dress was uneven – she had likely had to rip off quite a bit, to avoid tripping over it. She gesticulated wildly as she spoke, volume increasing –

-until, with a tearing shriek of metal, the heavy iron candelabra crashed to the floor.

Her utterly graceless dodge would have been comical if Thranduil hadn't been so badly startled himself. This time her glare was reproachful, as if he had somehow done it on purpose.

Had Idhrenion been mortal, Thranduil would have feared for his heart. As it was, the old Elf looked quite shocked. "Well," he said, looking at the wreck of the candelabra. It had hit the floor so hard the stone had cracked in places, spraying hot wax everywhere. "I have no idea what she is saying, my lord. As she is Edain, it might be best to send her to Esgaroth, with her own kind."

"She knows about the scar, Idhrenion."

If Idhrenion had been surprised before, he was shocked now. "How?" he asked. "How could she – and how do you know she does?"

"I know," Thranduil sighed, glancing at her. She had fetched up beside the fireplace, and as she seemed determined to stay there, he might as well let her be. "I saw her expression. And until I can speak with her, until I know just what she sensed, and how, I cannot let her go. You must teach her Sindarin. She seems as frustrated by her inability to communicate as we are – likely she will cooperate with you."

Idhrenion watched him closely, his grey eyes piercing. "There is more, my lord," he said, "isn't there?"

"If I go near her, it seems to cause her pain. Your proximity appears to do the same. Thus far we seem to be the only ones, but she has yet met few of us. Find out what she is, Idhrenion. Once I know, I will know what to do about her."

Well, now that Lorna had almost literally had the piss scared out of her, maybe she could get away from this creepy, headache-inducing king and go find some breakfast. She would have suspected him of trying to drop that thing on her on purpose, except he'd seemed just as surprised as her. It would have been funny, if she hadn't almost had her head split open like a melon; six inches to the left and they'd be scraping bits of her off the floor.

Evidently he'd decided no, he was not going to understand her, so he waved her away. A guard, silent and unsmiling, led her back to her cell, locking her in securely. As there was nothing in here that could land on her head, she didn't really mind.

Someone had brought breakfast while she was out, and to her relief, it was food she recognized: eggs and sausage, and what she suspected was toast, though she couldn't recognize the bread. She polished it and the glass of sweet, ice-cold water off in less than five minutes, and then she really, really wanted a smoke. She'd had half a pack squashed into the back pocket of her jeans, but she had no way to ask for them. As she'd not had one since last morning, she was already on her way to nicotine withdrawal, which was not something she wanted to experience here. She flopped onto her bed, hands laced behind her head, and tried to think of something else.

Had the falling chandelier been some kind glitch in the Matrix? Was she being punished for working out that someone was mucking about in her head, or was this all real, and it had just been a freak accident? She'd drive herself spare if she worried on it too much – she'd just have to keep watch, to see if she could spot the thread. Nobody could sustain a full mental reality forever.

God, I hope not, Lorna thought, drumming her heels on the mattress. Christ, she wanted a smoke. A drink would go down a treat, but what she really needed was a nice lungful of nicotine and carcinogens, dammit.

Staying still just wasn't an option. The cell wasn't large, but it was big enough for her to pace a little, so pace she did, singing a few filthy songs in Irish while she was at it. No doubt her guard thought she was utterly cracked, but there were very few people whose opinions Lorna actually cared about, and he was not one of them.

She didn't know how much time she wasted like that, but her craving was so bad that it was likely less than she thought. At least her guard didn't give her a headache, though she almost wished he would – at least it would be a distraction. Whatever drug or medicine they'd given her last night was still holding fast – none of her injuries pained her. She couldn't even feel any weakness in her left arm, which ought to have been impossible. If she had to be in prison again, at least her jailors took good care of her.

"Sure God do I wish you understood me," she sighed, wrapping her arms around the bars of her door and peering up at the guard – who, naturally, didn't look at her. All the people she'd seen so far looked weirdly alike – tall and white and too pretty for their own good, with those pointed ears. Like Vulcans, or Elves. Had there been any sign of anything resembling technology, she would have suspected them all of being really, really into plastic surgery. God only knew what she must look like to the lot of them.

You're in a bit of a quandary, Lorna, she thought, sitting on the floor and staring at him – sooner or later he'd be so creeped out he'd have to look at her. She didn't want to stay here forever, but she sure as hell didn't want to go back out into Spiderland. Going home was also out of the question, though, considering what she'd left behind.

God damn, I want a smoke.

When the shift changed, Thranduil had the guard who had been watching the Edain woman report to him.

"I believe she is bored," Lairion said. "She spent the first hour pacing and singing, then sat at the door and chattered at me. When I would not react, she started attempting to poke my boot. I believe she is harmless, my lord, if mildly unsound of mind."

"She showed no sign of pain in your presence?" Thranduil asked.

"No, my lord. The healers have taken good care with her."

That was not what he meant, but he did not feel compelled to explain himself to Lairion. "Very well. Ensure that she is fed and cared for, until I decide what to do with her."

Lairion bowed, and left him to his thoughts. So the Edain was not bothered by any in the guard thus far. Granted, she had been wounded when they found her in the forest, but she did not seem to feel true pain in her head until she was confronted with him, and later Idhrenion.

The Forest Guard were, by and large, young by Elven reckoning, few of them having even reached their first millennium. He and Idhrenion were, of course, much older. For now he would keep her near his younger guards, until he discovered why the elder pained her so.

Everything would likely be much simpler if he sent for Mithrandir, but that Thranduil did not want to do unless he had no other choice. Elrond and Galadriel might be on friendly terms with the Istari, but Thranduil was not over-fond of him – not that he was over-fond of anyone.

Elrond. Once they had discovered who and what the Edain woman was, if it was safe to allow her to leave, Thranduil would send her to Elrond. He was notorious for taking in strays of all sorts. He'd likely have all sorts of fun with this one.

So, I didn't start Lorna off in Rivendell because I felt I'd be following too closely in other writers' footsteps. It really would be the best place for a newcomer to Middle-Earth to start out, but I'm cruel to Lorna in her canon, so of course I've got to be a bastard to her in a fic as well. Even if she's let out of her cell, Thranduil's halls are still basically a prison, since Mirkwood is in no way safe for a lone human with zero wilderness survival skills.

"Heniach nin?" = "Do you understand me?"

"Man le?" = "Who are you?"
"Mana quentel?" = "What did you say?"