She sat alone in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm. They weren't terribly uncomfortable – she had experienced worse – but still, she was locked in a jail cell all the same. The floor was stone, cold, with bits of moss gathering at the edges where the wall joined it and rose into a high, arching ceiling. The only light that entered came through the bars, molded like branches that cut her off from the rest of the world. She sat aside a solitary, hard bench carved into the stonewall. Beside her sat a tray of wine, bread, and a jar filled with ointment to mend her cuts. She had touched nothing. Outside, Lastande maintained a cool façade. Inside, she was seething with anger and pain, feelings that were not helped by the faint din of raucous celebration that could be heard overhead. The Elves were celebrating again, a festival of Autumn Starlight. Lastande stood and wandered over to the bars, gripping them with calloused hands until her knuckles turned white. She longed to join them; her very bones aches with desire to see the stars and dance under the tall trees. She felt the pulsing of the music, was lifted upward by the smell of leaves and incense and wine, was consumed by the intermingling of starlight with nature.
But a sharp pain in her side brought her crashing back to the ground. She gasped and grabbed her right side, pulling away a hand stained with blood. Grimacing, Lastande forced herself, limping, back to the stone bench and gingerly lifted her tunic. Hissing with pain, she exposed the injured site. A deep gash spread from her hip to her ribcage, a gift from lone Orc she had encountered at the entrance to Mirkwood. She sighed and wondered that the injury had not hindered her thus far. Then, tearing a piece of her tunic from its fabric, she twisted it tightly and placed it between her teeth. She knew the healing powers of the Elves were legendary, yet their ointments were not without pain. Through the torn fabric she smirked. Thranduil knew exactly what he was doing when he provided her with the ointment as opposed to having a Healer examine her wounds. Doubtless, however, he did not know of this particular wound. Gritting her teeth and preparing for the pain, Lastande scooped a small mound of ointment from the jar and prepared to apply it to the bleeding gash.
"Wait."
The deep voice stilled her hand. She looked away from her wound and toward the source. There, King Thranduil stood, peering at her through the twisted bars, observing her with an air of curiosity and a tinge of concern. He was regal and intimidating, Lastande noted. His crown had been polished to shine like the starlight, his silver robes were high-necked, elongating his form and framing his pale face, and his deep red cloak swept behind him, enhancing his already immense air of authority. He was, every inch, a king, Lastande noted with a sense of disgust, realizing how she must appear to him. She was hunched against a wall in the darkest corner of his dungeons. Her hair was matted, her face bruised and dirty, her tunic torn and wrinkled, and she was staring at him through pained eyes with a piece of fabric between gritted teeth. She felt her face burn with shame. She was a princess of Gondor, not some pathetic ranger who wandered unknowingly into the realm. Centering herself, Lastande gingerly lowered her tunic over the gash, removed the cloth from her teeth, and slowly stood to greet the King. As she stood, a jolt of pain struck her side, and she cried out, falling to her knees and clutching her stomach.
Thranduil's eyes widened.
"Guard!" he called, not taking his gaze off Lastande, now doubled over in pain.
An Elf in armor, carrying clanging keys, sprinted to the King's side. Thranduil gestured to the bars separating him from Lastande, and the Elf immediately unlocked the door to the cell. In two strides, the King was at her side, gingerly lifting the girl from the ground and holding her close to his gilded chest. He spoke several terse words to the guard, who bowed and darted from the dungeons and toward the Healers' quarters. Alone, Thranduil rushed Lastande from the dungeons and up white staircases, their steps twisting upward into the starry night and leading the pair into a pale moon.
