Regarding the gems of Lasgalen, I'm going with the fan/P.J. theory that they and the necklace belonged to Thranduil's wife and that's why he's so eager to get them back. Because nothing says motive for war like reclaiming your dead wife's jewelry. Regarding this chapter: the reader gets to see what happens when you mess with fate: you get to have drinks with a hot elf prince! Well, okay, there's some slightly more concerning things, but let's focus on what's really important.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Tolkien, you own you!

Beorn sends the company off with packs full of supplies and some beautiful ponies. You are indescribably grateful to be on horseback again; the worst of all that *walking* nonsense is behind you. You feel quite like a princess, galloping over the open plains with the wind in your hair. You're sure you see both Dwalin and Thorin roll their eyes at your antics. You don't care. You just want as much fresh air as possible before going into Mirkwood.

That time comes all too soon. The border of the thick, twisting forest is abrupt and uninviting. You dismount unwillingly and gaze into the dark trees. You take several deep breaths to clear your mind of past and future clutter. You want to focus on Mirkwood presently; in particular, you want to focus on not becoming spider snacks.

"Not my horse, I need it!" Gandalf shouts to Dori, striding purposefully out of the forest.

"You're not leaving us!" Bilbo says desperately.

"I would not do this unless I had to."

You recall the rather important side quest. You turn to Gandalf, who is giving instructions. "You must stay on the path. Do not leave it. If you do, you'll never find it again. No matter what may come, stay on the path!"

You catch Gandalf before he mounts his horse. "You're going to Dol Guldur?" you ask in an undertone.

"It is unavoidable."

"You remember what I said about the Necromancer?"

His grey eyes darken. "Yes."

"Be careful."

"And you. And Aniel - look after them."

You grin. "You hardly need to tell me."

Gandalf gallops off. Your confidence boosted by Gandalf's faith in your competence, you grab a long rope from Fili and announce, "Alright, gents - to make this as quick and painless as possible, all of you are going to keep one hand on this rope at all times. I'm sure none of us fancy getting lost in there. If I see one person let go of the rope for even a second, I'll tie you into it."

There are protests about various manly concerns such as dignity and childishness. You put a hand on a hip, daring any of them to fight you on it.

"Do as she says," Thorin orders. "Hurry. The sooner we get through this forest, the better."

You beam at him for his unexpected support. He nods curtly and grabs a section of the rope. You take a place in the front of the line, because frankly, you don't trust Thorin to find his way down a one-way street, let alone through Mirkwood.

The going is a bit slow because you frequently pause to make sure the cracked brick path you are on is the real one. The thick, heavy, stifling atmosphere does not help your concentration.

"How do you know the way?" Thorin inquires after about an hour. "You said you are not from here."

"'M not," you mutter, squinting downwards. "I'm just staying on the path."

"And is it so hard?"

You catch the attitude behind the comment and frown at him. "You got lost twice on the way to Bilbo's house," you remind him, "and I don't plan on becoming a spider's dinner."

Your strategy of intense ground scrutiny works to keep everyone safe - or so you assume, until murmurs make you halt and look up. The trees are coated in white, sticky webbing; it hangs ominously off of every surface, belying its vile creators.

"Don't touch it!" you hiss. The several Dwarves (and Bilbo) who reached out hands freeze. "It'll alert them. Just keep watch and don't touch the webs."

You tiptoe even more carefully now, checking above as well as below so you don't get the nice surprise of a spider the size of a Mini Cooper on your back.

"This is what you meant by spiders," Thorin murmurs behind you.

"It's too close to what I meant. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"Wasn't supposed to happen?" Thorin looks at you in alarm. "What do you mean, wasn't supposed to happen?!"

"Calm down! We're not in webs, so as far as I'm concerned, it's a minor setback."

"We don't have time for setbacks! If you've gotten us lost - "

"We are not lost!" you exclaim, finally losing your temper. "We are on the path and we are going to get through this stupid forest!"

Your outburst echoes into nothingness. The forest responds with a low, eerie chatter from the highest boughs. You can just discern movement in the shadows of the canopy.

You sigh heavily and draw your sword. "Alright, well, I can take responsibility. This one's on me."

The spiders that drop from on high are even more terrifying in person. Their pincers are almost as big as your arm, and their many eyes rove wildly, looking for prey. You just hack at anything that comes near you; spiders have never exactly elicited courage from you, and that was when they were no bigger than a dime. The one silver lining you hold on to as you slash at the oversized beasts is that at least you won't be wrapped up like a burrito. Except, as you consider it, that may not be such a silver lining after all.

You fight your way over to Bilbo and yank him behind a tree. "Use your ring," you whisper urgently to him.

Bilbo blinks and stammers, "I - I don't know what you - "

"Bilbo, I do not have time for that! Use the ring and disappear, now! You'll be the only one who can rescue us!"

An arrow sails through the air and embeds in an eye of a spider that was creeping up on you. You look around to thank Kili, but he's in the opposite direction of where the shot came from. You see a blond whoosh of hair descending on a cord of thread and groan internally just as much as you squeal.

The Mirkwood guard makes short work of the spiders. You grin as Tauriel saves Kili from one rogue arachnid. The smile is short lived when you meet the unfriendly end of a bow.

"Search them," Legolas orders.

The elves move into action. The one who disarms you does so less roughly; he gazes at you in confusion and says something in elvish to Legolas. Legolas glances over and does a double take. He asks you something you don't understand.

"Er...I don't speak elvish," you say sheepishly.

"You do not speak your own language?" Legolas is shocked. "Who are you? I do not know your face, yet you are dressed as one of the guard."

You break out in a sweat. "I'm not from Mirkwood. The dress is strictly coincidental."

"I would believe you on that point since you do not even speak your native tongue."

Legolas receives Orcrist from another elf. He comments on the blade in elvish, then asks Thorin sharply, "Where did you get this?"

"It was given to me."

"Not just a thief, but a liar as well."

"He's not lying," you say. Both Thorin and Legolas look at you. "It was given to him by Lord Elrond."

"Lord Elrond?" Legolas raises an eyebrow at you. "What business would Dwarves have in Rivendell?"

"Our business is none of yours," Thorin snaps. You rub your face, exasperated.

Legolas gives the word, and the company is marched into captivity. You heave a sigh and resign yourself to a long night in a dungeon cell. You shoot an annoyed glare at Thorin, who sets his jaw and avoids your gaze.

"Not those two," Legolas says as guards open a cell for you and Thorin. "The king will want to see them."

This was not part of the plan. Only Thorin was supposed to talk with Thranduil. You do not know how the Elven-King will react to your presence. You stick close to Thorin as the guards escort you to the throne room.

Upon a grand platform at the top of a flight of stairs he sits in all his antler-themed glory. He's even more glamorous in person; his long, white-blond hair is as silky as his robes, and his expression is a careful arrangement of aloofness and arrogance. You grin internally at his glorious douchebaggery.

"Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand," Thranduil begins, rising from his throne and winding down the stairs to the platform. "A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon. I myself suspect a more prosaic motive: attempted burglary, or something of that ilk."

Thranduil comes to a stop in front of the two of you. His icy blue eyes rest on you. "Yet this is something I did not expect. Why does an elf dressed like one of my own guard travel with Thorin Oakenshield?"

"I - I - " You're not sure how or if you should answer the question. You bite your lip and look to Thorin.

"Her involvement is no concern of yours," Thorin says darkly. "And neither is our quest."

"It is as I thought: you have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule: the King's Jewel - the Arkenstone."

Your stomach flops at the mention of the Arkenstone.

"It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that. There are gems in the mountain that I too desire: white gems of pure starlight. I offer you my help."

Thorin crosses his arms. "I am listening," he says almost cordially, and had you not known better, you would have thought him genuine.

"I will let you go, if you but return what is mine."

"A favor for a favor."

"You have my word," Thranduil says gracefully. "One king to another."

Thorin walks to the edge of the platform as if to contemplate the offer. You brace for impact.

"I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honor his word should the end of all days be upon us! You, who lack all honor! I have seen how you treat your friends. We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help,but you turned your back! You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!"

"Do not talk to me of dragon fire!" Thranduil hisses. "I know its wrath and ruin. I have faced the great serpents of the North." With one last glare, Thranduil withdraws towards his throne. "I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen. You are just like him. Stay here if you will and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf. I'm patient. I can wait."

Guards grab you and Thorin and march you towards the dungeon.

"Not her," Thranduil adds absently. "She stays."

Panic rising in your chest, you look to Thorin and find him just as alarmed. You mouth before he is pulled away, "Go on without me." He nods once and disappears down the stairs.

You turn to face Thranduil, who is surveying you imperiously from his throne. You are completely out of your depth as you stare down the Elven-King. You never planned on meeting him face to face, or at least not until the battle at Erebor.

You say carefully, "If it's all the same to my king, I would prefer to remain with my company."

"Perhaps I will allow it, but not before you answer some of my questions."

"I'll - I'll tell you what I can..."

Just then, Legolas appears from the stairs. "The Dwarves are imprisoned as you requested, but there is still - " He cuts off when he notices your presence. You incline your head respectfully. "There is still her," he finishes.

"We did not come to steal from you or cause you trouble, my lord," you say to Thranduil. "We simply wished to reach Erebor by the safest route. This is all a misunderstanding. And I apologize for Thorin - I know how, er, abrasive he can be - "

"Which is why I am interested," Thranduil says silkily. "Why have you chosen to ally yourself with Thorin Oakenshield? What could you possibly stand to gain from it?"

"Well...nothing, really," you say truthfully. "I'm not doing it for my gain. I'm doing it to help him reclaim his homeland."

"And do you know that there is one very large, very dangerous thing standing in the way of that?"

"Yes, but we'll kill Smaug. It shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"You are confident to a fault," Legolas comments with what sounds like amusement. "Perhaps spending so much time around Dwarves has given you some of their less desirable traits."

Thranduil continues, "And there is still the matter of why you are dressed like one of this realm. I have never seen your face in my kingdom."

"As I told the prince, I am not from Mirkwood. The outfit is a coincidence," you say firmly.

"She almost reminds me of Tauriel," Legolas murmurs.

You glance pointedly at him. You'd start serving up some sass if you don't think it would get you killed. You address Thranduil. "Could we not come to an agreement? I know Thorin can be unreasonable, but I am open to compromise if you would release us."

"What could you possibly offer me?"

"The white gems of Lasgalen."

Thranduil's eyes widen slightly. "It is unwise to jest about this matter," he says very softly, and you shiver at the warning.

"I'm not jesting. I can get them for you. That's what you wanted from Thorin, isn't it? It's a very fair price. After all, they're rightfully yours. The necklace is finished. I'll return it and everything else I can find to you if you let us go."

"How do you know of the necklace?" Thranduil demands. His voice echoes slightly around the chamber.

"Does it matter?" You congratulate yourself on a steady voice. "You get yours in the end."

"It matters!" Thranduil once again sweeps down from his throne and circles you like a snake. "You are but a child, not nearly old enough to have been there when our feud with the Dwarves began. Did your Dwarf friends brag to you of their thievery?"

"No, it's not like that - "

"Or perhaps you knew it another way - through insight common to elvenkind."

You swallow hard. It's impossible to lie when those cold, clear blue eyes are boring into yours, but you stick to your guns: "Do you want the gems or not?"

"I do not need your help to reclaim what is mine." Thranduil waves his hand, and Legolas gently but firmly takes your arm.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask when Legolas does not lead you to the dungeons.

"My father can be rash. I'm sure he will want to discuss the gems with you again. And if you are kin, you deserve better than a dungeon cell."

You squint up at his fair face. "That's not all, is it?"

He does not answer.

"Are you trying to make nice so I'll give up some sweet foresight knowledge?"

Legolas smiles slightly at you. "You have an odd way of speaking."

"I know. I'm shocked that you're the first to call me out on it. But you didn't answer my question."

He pauses a moment before saying, "Did you know that the necklace was designed by my father for my mother?"

"I did know. That's why I wanted to return it."

"In exchange for the freedom of your Dwarf friends?"

"Yes, but even though that didn't quite work out, I'll do my best to get it anyway."

Legolas blinks at you. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I want Thranduil to have it."

"What would you ask in return?"

"Nothing! Why is everybody always so suspicious? Am I the one person in all of Middle Earth who doesn't have ulterior motives?"

"Perhaps you are."

You've arrived at a sort of miniature apartment; there's a table and sitting area, and a bed in the corner. Legolas releases his grip on your arm. You look at him in askance.

"As I said, I will not put you in the dungeon, but you must remain here. Make yourself at home. Would you like a drink? It is Merethen Gilith, after all."

"Uh...yes, thank you." You suppose accepting a drink rather than declining would make you seem grateful instead of suspicious of the preferential treatment. He pours a rich red liquid into a goblet and hands it to you. You take a tentative sip. The wine is very sweet and somewhat fruity, with almost no trace of alcohol to it; you realize why it's so easy for Mirkwood elves to get plastered.

Legolas pours his own drink and sits at the table opposite you. After a moment of quiet observation, he asks, "Why can you not speak elvish?"

You actually laugh. "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"I simply do not understand. Forgive me if it's too personal a question."

"No, it's okay. I just wasn't raised with it. I wasn't raised around other elves." Or wizards or hobbits or Dwarves, for that matter...

"Were your parents from Mirkwood?"

"No. They, uh, were killed when I was young. I've been on my own for most of my life."

"I am sorry to hear that. It's astonishing that such trials did not harden your heart. You are very kind for having suffered so much."

You shrug lightly. "Foresight helped."

"About that..."

You grin. "We come to it at last."

"For a group of Dwarves so large to come this far east can only mean that their aim is the Lonely Mountain. Is it true that Thorin Oakenshield seeks to enter Erebor?"

"It's true."

Legolas shakes his head. "It is impossible. There is no way into that mountain, and even if there was, there is a dragon in its depths."

You tilt your head, sizing Legolas up. You'll be seeing him in sixty years, him with a massive attitude adjustment, so you decide to trust him. "We will enter the mountain," you tell him. "Smaug will be slain, and Thorin will be King Under the Mountain."

"And you know this for certain?"

"I do."

"My father says that even the wisest cannot be certain of all things."

"Well, I am certain. I even knew that we would end up here. This part was a surprise, though, but not unwelcome."

Legolas drinks deeply. You wonder if the flirt flustered him.

A harried elf bursts in. "My lord Legolas, the prisoners are escaping!" he shouts.

Legolas looks between the elf and you. You shrug and smile. Legolas rises and grabs his bow. "Stay here," he orders.

"I will."

The two disappear. You give them a few seconds' head start before dashing after them.

The spot-on Tauriel cosplay that became your clothes had never served you better until this moment. You sneak into the intercepting group by keeping your head down. You even net a bow and some daggers from the armory, which is great, except you're no Robin Hood. You focus less on hitting orcs and more on not hitting elves, soon giving up the bow in favor of the daggers. It's easy to look busy without doing much real fighting as you follow the barrel-bound Dwarves down the river. You aren't able to stop Kili from getting shot; you wince, but it's for the best, since it will give him and Tauriel a chance to solidify their bond.

The number of orcs thins thanks to the skill of the Mirkwood guard. You recognize the point where Legolas calls off the pursuit nearing. You sheath your new daggers and, instead of stopping, jump right off the cliff into the rushing river. You surface, sputtering and disoriented, and scrabble for the wood of a barrel. Once your hand finds purchase, you look back to the cliff. There Legolas stands with a look of utter astonishment.

"Sorry!" you call over the frothing of the rapids, and you mean it.

As the flow carries you further down the river, you could swear you see the elf prince smile.