'"I give her sadness,

And the gift of pain,

The new-moon madness,

And the love of rain."

And little good to lave me

In their holy silver bowl

After what she gave me-

Rest her soul!'

-"Godmother," Dorothy Parker

There was a gap.

In the inner wall of the Courtyard of Nine Voices, just beyond Elwing's Fountain, cleverly hidden behind climbing silver-leaf vines. At first she had dared think it a mistake-a single, unobtrusive hole in the Noldorin perfection. But later, when the courtyard had emptied and she had found a moment to slip behind the winged lady, to run her fingers over the cold stone, the little gap-hip-high and so narrow that only a child or an exceptionally slim adult might slip through sideways-breathed a welcome to her with the fragrance of flowers.

The vines moved aside for her, a little reluctant and suspicious but pliant under her fingers. They clung to her torso as she found herself easing through. And, then, it seemed, she was somewhere else entirely, far from the blinding courtyard and the singing water, far from the glinting, lethal king, from Glorfindel's bristling protection. From Aearis, flushed and thrumming with power, her excitable fëa flickering outward to burn ravenously at all it touched. Here, in this little gap in the unyielding beauty of it all, Bereneth was alone.

Behind the gap all was shadow, welcoming and impenetrable. But still a spectral image of the courtyard in all its oppressive brilliance floated before her eyes. She leaned against the cool stone at her back and waited patiently for her eyes to adjust to the pressing dark. There was a subtle shimmer of sound, of gentle motion. Slowly, rarified light trickling through the gap began to reveal her surroundings. A slender rill cut a gouge through the stone floor, flowing out of the shadows towards the courtyard before ducking abruptly underground, as though struck with sudden shyness at the prospect of meeting the sun. She set aside her useless silk slippers neatly- who would have thought that I would lose my shoes before Aearis?- raised her skirts, and plunged her feet into the water. It was cool and surprisingly deep, swirling around her knees in effusive welcome.

She waded upstream, relishing the tingle of the current rushing over her skin, the slight chill of the still air, the tranquil blindness of the unlit passage. But slowly, ever so slowly, the shadows began to retreat as a pale light dawned over her path and set the stream alight with dancing golds and greens. The rill wound around a corner, and ahead there appeared an archway, glowing as it seemed to float in the midst of the perfect darkness. The warmth of it pressed into her skin and a breath of wind stirred the air and carried with it the heavy scent of springtime blooms, so thick that she could taste the sweetness on her tongue. She emerged blinking, disoriented, almost drunk with the color and fragrance that rushed to embrace her.

She was in a garden, wild and overgrown and not more than twenty paces across in any direction. Flowering vines and fruit-laden brambles ran rampant, spreading greedily over the walls and ground, ensnaring her affectionately with their playful tendrils. A cobblestone path, now little more than a tentative suggestion of civilization, was cracked and disrupted by veins of springy moss and eruptions of slender grasses. And at the center of this savage little rebellion was the spring from which the guiding rill flowed, pouring forth from the earth to form an ever-rippling pool that caught the blue of the sky at the crest of each propagating ring. Clear, bright water bubbled from the ground, its singsong laughter mingling with birdsong and rustling leaves.

All was verdant, vivid, mouthwatering. Suddenly, heedlessly joyful, Bereneth settled at the bank of the spring and dipped her hand into the shallow pond, watching tadpoles darting around her fingertips and jewel-bright dragonflies dancing across the water's surface in their lustful springtime mating frenzy.

And so she stayed under a bower of green and gold, lulled by the songs of the furtive garden, until gray twilight dimmed her trance and, in the distance, the chill ring of a bell summoned her back.

Dinners at the palace were a discordant combination of levity and tension. The great hall furnished a single, extraordinarily long table of extravagant beauty, and it quickly became clear that the arrangement of each seat was a matter of supreme importance to those fortunate and favored enough to be seated at the King's table.

The precise meaning of each shift in position was far too elaborate for any newcomer to fully understand. Generally speaking, however, it seemed that moving up the table, closer to the King, was good, while any movement down the table was decidedly not.

Over the course of a single week, Bereneth witnessed several courtiers of insufficiently scintillating wit or unimpressive sartorial choices slip down in the seating arrangements until, one by one, they vanished, to be replaced by new, lovelier attendants. Left to her own devices, Bereneth would gladly have allowed her reserved nature to push her slowly into obscurity, until she was allowed to disappear from the glittering milieu and return to the peace of Glorfindel's house in Harlond. But it was not to be, for Aearis was seated just across the table, and her incandescent spirit lit them both with the glow of the new and interesting. She talked educated trivialities with the pleasing, ingenuous hunger of a young scholar, flattering and challenging her companions with delightful sincerity even as her uncommon, almost lascivious beauty hypnotized them.

And so, each night Aearis and Berenth found themselves advancing gradually up the long table. Bereneth's skin prickled with ever more nervous electricity. But Aearis rose, and she followed.

And at the head of the table, mesmeric and frightening, Ereinion Gil-galad, with Rhossorieth at his right and Glorfindel at his left, glorious as heros of old. When she had been a girl, Bereneth had seldom thought of the lofty, distant king except as a figure of legend. Guiding star of the Noldor, bane of the Enemy, leader of the Wise, slayer of dragons. Accounts of him in Eryn Galen, Pelargir, even Imladris, had always been so wildly outsized and conflicting as to be nearly useless. All she had known for certain from all the tales of his beauty, his ferocity, his ruthlessness, his battle thirst, was that she hoped with all her heart never to encounter him in the flesh.

But for all her reservations, for all her rising anxiety, Bereneth could not deny that there was something in the air of Lindon. Something ancient and grand, something that drove the spirit to hopes of high glory. So when, three weeks after their first appearance in court, Rhossorieth summoned Aearis and Bereneth to her study, a room at the summit of one of the palace spires, she attended readily, almost eagerly.

The long, slippery climb up the spiraling marble staircase might have been tinged with apprehension, even dread, if Aearis had not been with her. She had seemed positively feverish since they had arrived in Lindon, and now she seized Bereneth's hand and bounded up the stairs three at a time.

"Finally, a staircase without witnesses. I thought I would go mad if I had to walk at a ladylike pace for one second more!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"I suppose I should count myself lucky that you chose to take the stairs at all rather than scaling the side of the tower." Aearis stopped and turned abruptly.

"You know, I hadn't even thought of that. What is becoming of me? I imagine the walls are likely too smooth even for me, but it couldn't hurt to try…"

Before this particularly dangerous train of thought could take hold, Bereneth raced ahead, dragging Aearis with her. They arrived flushed and panting at Rhossorieth's door, but the two guards who stood stock-still at the landing were far too well-trained to stare, and let them pass without comment.

The round room was bright, with a high ceiling and large windows, built of polished white stone laced with silver veins. Shelves of rich, dark wood were neatly populated by beautifully bound volumes and a few well-placed artifacts of clear historical significance. The whole room was decorated with the same expressionless elegance that marked Rhossorieth's every touch.

And, delicately arranged as a bouquet of silk flowers, the lady herself, seated in a chair upholstered in deep blue velvet. She appeared deeply absorbed in a long scroll, and Bereneth noted that the wax of the broken seal was green with silver shavings-the official seal of the Woodland Realm. She did not look up as they entered, but gestured them to take seats beside a fresh tea tray. Aearis instantly set to serving the tea, mostly, Bereneth suspected, in order to occupy her hands. They sat in silence save for the clinking of porcelain for about thirty seconds longer than was strictly comfortable before Rhossorieth set aside the scroll and bestowed a perfect smile on each of them. Yet Bereneth dared imagine that the silver lady looked just a little tired, that her serenity had slipped just a hair to reveal a hint of worry.

"Thank you for coming, Bereneth, Aearis. I trust you are settling in well?"

Bereneth allowed Aearis to answer the question, let her judge the precise amount of pleasant nonsense that was due before they could come to the point.

"How delightful," Rhossorieth replied when Aearis paused to breathe. Then, preamble over: "It is time, I think, that we find occupations for you." She caught the expression of relief that passed over Aearis's face and smiled with more feeling. "The King likes his courtiers to make themselves useful to the realm. Idle entertainment is all very well for a season, but we all owe a duty to the people of Lindon. Aearis, I have taken the liberty of arranging an introduction to Lord Angolor, chief composer for the King's minstrels-"

"You are very kind, my lady, but I am well-acquainted with Lord Angolor already. If I may, I have not yet had the honor of meeting Lord Ristoron, who I hear is too much occupied with the healing halls in Mithlond to attend the court…"

Rhossorieth regarded Aearis impassively for a long moment, and though she fell silent, the girl held her gaze.

"Your voice, Aearis, is a great gift. With the proper shaping, you could wield it to do immense good. But you shall never reach your full potential without the hand of a proper teacher guiding you in the ways of Song."

"Then let me do both, my lady. Surely if my skill in songs of power improves, my usefulness in the healing halls shall as well."

"You speak of two of the most rigorous occupations in all of Lindon. One alone might easily exhaust you. To apply yourself properly to both at once might very well be fatal."

"I have been split in half since birth. I can take it." Rhossorieth appeared unimpressed by this argument. Aearis sighed and her expression of mulish determination softened slightly. "I have heard rumor of the healing halls, my lady. That they are constantly short-handed. That healers are lost in battle and cannot be replaced. That some have even faded from the strain. Can you truly expect any student of Elrond's to stand by and sing songs while there is such need for succor?"

Rhossorieth remained perfectly still for a moment, keen eyes boring deep into Aearis's.

"Your skills as a healer will have to be evaluated," she said finally. "Ristoron is an exacting and uncompromising man.*"

"I would expect nothing less."

"Angolor will not tolerate anything less than full commitment to his lessons. And your attendance in court will still be expected."

"I never sleep much."

Rhossorieth opened her mouth to raise another objection, then closed it. She scrutinized the restless girl for a long, fraught moment.

"It would be a great waste if you died of exhaustion," she mused.

"Let me worry about that," Aearis replied, smiling brightly. Bereneth could not quite restrain herself.

"Aearis," she interjected, more irritably than she intended, " everyone will worry about that. Do as you will-Valar know you always do. But at the very least, you must give us leave to feel as we will."

"Wise words," Rhossorieth said. Her smile was distinctly laced with sadness now. "I concede, Aearis, that it would be of great value to gain a healer and an enchantress at one stroke. But I will not trade your life for a momentary advantage in a war without end." Rhossorieth turned to Bereneth and raised a brow. "And I suppose you will insist on some noble nonsense as well."

"I believe I could be of service in the army, if it is permitted, my lady," Bereneth replied. Rhossorieth sighed heavily in a way most unlike her and passed a hand over her eyes.

"It will be permitted if I say so."

"And will you?" Rhossorieth paused, eyes flickering between Aearis and Bereneth.

"Is this how I am to repay my life debt to Lady Gimlith? By sending both her daughters to an early grave?" Aearis grinned cheerfully and leaned forward to refill the cups.

"She would be the last to reproach you on that front, I assure you. We are notoriously difficult to keep alive." Rhossorieth drained her tea in a single gulp and rose, moving to her desk. She produced from a drawer a stout glass bottle filled with a rich amber liquid. As it splashed into her delicate porcelain cup, it released a scent of fire and fragrant wood.

"So I am beginning to realize."

She drank, deeply.


2883 SA

The thick, lustrous fur of her cloak fought off the winter's chill heroically as she made the familiar trek from the healing halls back to the palace, but as she walked Aearis found herself trembling violently.

It would never do. She could not play a lute with her hands shaking so, and if Angolor reported her symptoms to Rhossorieth, or worse, Glorfindel… Aearis stopped in her tracks and took a deep, shuddering breath, closed her eyes, and retreated deep into the tower that Ristoron had taught her to build at the center of her mind. Contained within the walls of stone, she examined her fëa, all jagged tears and singed edges. But the tremors stopped, at least for the moment, and she walked on.

She was halted again, however, when she passed the training grounds. A warrior she did not recognize, wearing only light riding clothes and a green hood that obscured his features in a haze of subtle magic, was sparring with Lagor, a swordsman so skilled that, in only his third yen of life, he had already been made a captain in the army. But the hooded stranger fought with fluid grace and Lagor was on the defensive. A large audience had congregated at the perimeter of the training field, and the King himself stood with Rhossorieth at the front. His face was arranged in an expression of detached amusement, but Aearis thought she saw a glitter of displeasure in his eyes. Curiosity piqued, she pushed her way indecorously to the front of the crowd to stand beside him. Indeed, she had been correct-from up close, Gil-galad exuded a palpable sense of intense irritation.

"Does something vex you, your Majesty?" she asked, every bit the solicitous courtier. Rhossorieth shot her a warning look and shook her head minutely. Gil-galad spared her a brief, sardonic glance before returning his eyes to the match.

"Two years in my court, should you not have learned to simper more convincingly?"

"Would that please my king?"

Lagor's guard slipped as he made a reckless thrust, and Green-hood's sword nicked his chest, marking the end of the match. Odd. Lagor's guard never slipped. Bereneth had spoken often and at length on the topic. Lagor was practically untouchable, except perhaps by Glorfindel.

"Every time, that insolent brat imposes on my soldiers-"

"Your majesty," Rhossorieth interjected sharply, " please. "

Green-hood defeated two more soldiers. Both went down far too easily, making foolish mistakes that no warrior of Lindon would ever countenance.

"Who is he?" Aearis asked finally when she could no longer restrain her curiosity.

"Prince Thranduil of Greenwood," Gil-galad gritted out, eyes flashing. "Now and then his father sends him here with a diplomatic delegation, and he takes it into his wooden head to challenge my soldiers to a tournament."

"Ah. And no one with an ounce of sense would dare draw blood from King Oropher's heir," she completed the explanation, barely containing a smile. "I have heard of his majesty's royal temper."

"He always comes with the most ludicrous disguises, but of course everyone knows by word of mouth when the Prince of Greenwood is in Lindon."

"That indeed is a grievance, your majesty. What a cruel affliction to have the sanctity of your blood sports so compromised." Gil-galad turned to look down at her severely, brows raised.

"Are you perfectly sure that this is the tone you wish to employ with your monarch, Lady Aearis?" he asked courteously.

"Ah, forgive me, majesty. Would you prefer I avoided drawing blood?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. She was safe.

The next competitor entered the field. With a painful leap of the heart, Aearis recognized Bereneth beneath the thin shirt of mail and modest helm. She stood tall and proud, just another soldier of the realm. She appeared to be freshly returned from her mission on the outskirts, for the red dirt of the eastern road still stained her boots. A terrible thought occurred to Aearis. Did Bereneth know the identity of the hooded challenger?

She was walking forward before she had finished the thought, but she was restrained with a vice grip on her wrist. Gil-galad's eyes were fixed on the field, and a new note of savage excitement lit his eye.

"Release me, majesty, unless you will defend her from King Oropher's wrath." She flinched as the first great clang of swords meeting rang out.

"She will come to no harm, my lady, while she resides in my realm. Now hush. I want to enjoy this."

The prince was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, yet he moved quickly and beautifully. But Bereneth was quicker still, so light upon her feet that she moved through the mist like a specter. She parried and evaded as he lunged and attacked, and his patience wore thin as he pursued. The fight wore on, long and elaborate, and with each blow, his recklessness grew and his arm tired. Then, she feinted and he faltered, and the brief opening was all she needed. He crashed to the floor with her sword at his throat and one muddy heel resting upon his chest.

Dead silence fell over the crowd. They watched in collective apprehension as Bereneth sheathed her sword and extended her hand to help her opponent to his feet. He hesitated for a moment, then took it. The red print of her boot stood out starkly against the white cotton of his shirt, and Aearis was torn between glowing pride and abject horror.

The fighters removed their headpieces. Bereneth's auburn hair, sticky with sweat though it was, shone nevertheless under its mantle of silver stars, and with a flush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, she looked so beautiful that she seemed to drive back the mist. Slowly, her opponent pushed back his hood to reveal his bright blond hair, his noble brow and finely angled features and, most importantly, his circlet of silver leaves and emeralds.

They gazed at each other for an uncomprehending moment. Then, quite suddenly, Thranduil began to laugh.


"Come now, ladies, won't you give us another song?" Thranduil's melodic voice was roughened around the edges slightly by the strong ice wine. He tugged lightly at the fabric of Aearis's sleeve and fixed her with an entreating gaze until she smiled and obliged him again.

It cost Glorfindel every ounce of his considerable self control not to lift the wild, handsome elven prince by his throat and hurl him into a marble pillar. But, as he reminded himself daily now, he was old and wise and not in the habit of assaulting the royalty. So he settled for swishing his own wine irritably in its heavy crystal chalice and watching from the corner of his eye. She looked terribly pale, almost consumptive.

In moments when she thought no one was watching, he had seen a tremor in her fingers. But they always seemed to steady in time for her next song.

And so it was now. As she struck the first chord, patches of color bloomed in her cheeks and a fervent light came into her eyes. Her fëa flared out, savage and injured and lovely, as her voice mingled with Bereneth's. Her eyes met his, but only for a moment.

"How marvelous. She never seems to stop, does she?" Glorfindel's fingers tightened around the delicate stem of his goblet as Gil-galad approached to stand beside him. "I could scarcely ask for more from any subject." Baited despite his resolve, Glorfindel found himself replying before he could entirely recover his composure.

"Scarcely? And what more would you ask, majesty?" The last word came out more as a curse than an honorific.

"Worry not, old friend. I am not, I think, a greedy man. I am quite content with her as she is now. But in a perfect world, I suppose, an advantageous marriage…" he trailed off as his eyes flickered to Thranduil, draped carelessly upon a bench in the cloistered courtyard as Aearis and Bereneth played to him. "She would be sure to charm in Greenwood's court if she could hold her tongue long enough to survive Oropher's temper. He hasn't my sense of humor, you know."

For a moment, Glorfindel thought to protest that Aearis would never agree to such a match. But then, with a chill, he recalled her distinctly unromantic remarks on the topic of political marriages.

"I find it hard to believe that you would willingly surrender a promising sorceresss to the Woodland Realm," he replied instead in a voice of forced calm.

"Indeed, you are wise as ever," Gil-galad agreed with a slight bow and a small, cruel smile. "She is of far greater utility here. Perhaps I should marry her."

The delicate music that filled the air was marred by a sudden, discordant noise-the explosive shattering of crystal. Glorfindel turned instinctively to look at Aearis before sharp, shooting agony in his right hand drew his attention back. His ever-tightening grip had crushed the fine crystal goblet, and he stared for a moment with grim fascination as red dripped down his forearm, wine mingling with blood. Across the flowering garden, Aearis and Bereneth broke off their song and surged to their feet. Glorfindel smiled reassuringly at them and spoke quickly through his teeth as they approached.

"If you are trifling with her, Ereinion, no title, no army, no-" Gil-galad met his ire with a derisive smile.

"You are not worried that I am trifling with her. You are worried that I am not . That in your inaction, another, braver man will attain what you dare not take for yourself. Well, worry not on that count. She would be wasted on a throne."

"Glorfindel, what on earth-" Aearis began at the sight of his brutalized hand. He recovered his composure instantly, relaxing into an attitude of mildly embarrassed amusement.

"The beauty and curse of a strong vintage, my lady, nothing more. I do seem to forget my own strength under the power of good wine."

Aearis levelled her most potent aggrieved-healer scowl at him, breaking it only when Bereneth turned to curtsey deeply to the king and she followed suit a split second later.

"Forgive me, majesty, but I should treat this now. Bereneth, perhaps you could warn away the squeamish." So saying, she seized Glorfindel's wrist in a shockingly powerful grip and towed him unceremoniously to a well-lit stone table. She bid him sit in a severe tone. He sat. Bereneth and Gil-galad trailed after them, Bereneth watching with apprehension, Gil-galad with mild interest. Without any apparent embarrassment, Aearis set her foot on the bench beside Glorfindel, raising her skirts far higher than any laws of propriety would ever permit. Strapped there, just above her knee was a small leather pack. Above the pack, a sheath was holstered flush against her thigh. Her dagger, Echiar.

This woman was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, intended to be the death of him. He dimly wondered why the Valar had gone to all the trouble of resurrecting him at all. They did have a strange sense of humor.

"No need to look quite so horrified as that," she said, catching Glorfindel's eyes with a heart-stopping smile. "I just like to feel prepared." She herself sat on the table in front of him and opened her satchel, withdrawing bandages and an array of glass bottles and fine metal instruments.

Glorfindel's hand rested in her lap, staining her delicate white skirts with a spreading pool of scarlet. He cleared his throat and tried very hard not to think about the way she pushed her thick hair over one shoulder, baring her shoulder and throat. He found himself amply distracted by the sharp pain when she plucked the first shard of glass from his palm, and winced despite himself, jerking back. She rolled her eyes and reached for a small vial, which she shook vigorously before uncorking it.

"Lion of Gwathlo indeed," she muttered, sprinkling its contents over the afflicted area. It burned for a moment, then blissful numbness spread over his palm. The next shard she removed barely caused a twinge, and he found himself once again without respite from the intoxicating nearness of her.

"The guards might have some objections to a lady of the court carrying concealed weapons in the palace," Glorfindel observed in a neutral tone. Aearis appeared undisturbed and eased a particularly long sliver from the center of his palm.

"A cultural difference, I suppose. In Andustar, daggers are worn proudly in court. Beautiful, decorative ones, of course, but effective if the need arises." Gil-galad's brows rose slightly

"Oh? And does the need often arise?" At this, the steady work of Aearis's hands faltered briefly and her brow furrowed.

"Not often, your majesty, no. But once was enough." She plucked another shard. "At any rate, I could do far less damage with two daggers than Lord Glorfindel can, apparently, with his bare hands."

"I suppose that if they wished to disarm you, they should have to cut out your tongue," Glorfindel said impulsively. She faltered again and raised her eyes to his.

"Indeed, my lord, perhaps there would be wisdom in that. My words have caused a great deal of harm, and much of it undeserved." She held his gaze, allowed him to explore fully the depth of the regret suddenly laid bare in her eyes.

"I think not," he replied, though his voice rasped slightly in his throat. "Silence is a far crueler cut than hasty words could ever inflict."

Her lips parted in the beginnings of a smile and as she turned her eyes back to her task, the hand that held his steady seemed to grasp him a little more tightly.


Spring of 2884 brought an onslaught of violent thunderstorms and torrential downpours to sweep in on Lindon from the sea. The air shivered with electric charge, and heavy rains pierced Aearis's skin with the wild beauty of the songs they brought from distant lands. The weariness that had haunted her for the last two years lifted slightly, chased away by the exhilaration of the tempests coursing through her blood.

On a still, gray morning, tense with the anticipation of another storm, Aearis climbed to the highest battlements of the palace and let the sweat freeze on her skin.

"I thought I might find you here. But beware, storm-charmer. It is possible to climb too high too quickly, even for you."

She whirled around. Even in the dim gray light, Gil-galad glittered. The painful, addictive thrill of his voice set her skin tingling, and in her dazed state it took her a moment to notice that he held a small chest of bright mithril, that shone in his hands like a captured moon. But the moment her eyes fell upon it, she could not tear them away. It sang to her with a voice of sparks.

"Ah, I see that it calls to you, as indeed it does to me." She heard the smile in his voice, wonderful and lethal, but could not look away from the little box. He opened it slowly, teasingly, as impatience mounted behind her ribs like physical pressure. She wanted to rip it out of his lovely fingers and entwine herself with the voice within, but she stayed perfectly still, restraining the sudden hunger.

Inside was a single point of light. Red it was, like a bloodthirsty forest blaze. Or was it blue, like lightning? Or white and gold as a hearth? Her eyes could not quite focus upon it to see its form, but nor could she look away from the strange little glimmer nestled upon its bed of velvet. It sang its name to her, and she nearly wept with the beauty of it.

"Narya,*" she breathed. Gil-galad stepped closer, and she flinched at the keen, searing pleasure that she felt at its proximity. It drew her nearer until her hand hovered above it, and her fëa burned, painfully, exquisitely. "It sings to me." She forced her gaze away from the box back to Gil-galad, who watched her intently, his expression unreadable. "Why would you show me this?"

"Call the storm," he commanded. The song sprang to her lips with no time for thought, and it rang out from the battlements to rend the sky. She felt the answering harmony begin in the wind, the music at the heart of the world leaping into motion at her lightest touch. She sang out a question, and the lightning answered, painting the air a flickering blue. And then came the rain, and, far from quenching her, it danced over her like fingers of freezing flame. She was permeable, cracked open so that her fëa bled into the world, somehow totally vulnerable and perfectly invincible at once. And inches from her fingertips, Narya sang with her, taught her songs that she would never have dared imagine before.

And when she woke the next morning in her bed in the palace guest wing, she strained to remember the searing power as it had felt spreading out from her fingertips, racing in her throat and coiling in her belly, and even the memory burned her.

Angolor came to fetch her not ten minutes after she awoke, and she followed him through the hall, docile in her distracted state. The throne room was oddly, echoingly empty of the usual flutter of courtiers, servants, and various attendants. Her eyes found Gil-galad first, drawn irresistibly to the brightness of him. He smiled at her, a slow, savage, exhilarating smile. Then she found Glorfindel standing to one side with Rhossorieth, pale and drawn, knuckles white where his great hands were clenched at his sides.

And finally, the strangers. Two elves, a man and a woman, long-limbed and lean. They moved forward to greet her with loping, wolfish grace. Their faces were ageless, with sharp, slanting, beautiful features and pale, restless eyes. Their ears were longer and sharper than any she had seen before, even among the Silvans. Avari.*

They examined her with unembarrassed thoroughness, taking in her face, her hair, her body with long, appraising gazes.

"Too young," said the man finally, and his voice rumbled low and guttural. He was tall as Glorfindel, broad as a bear. The furs that draped over his thickly muscled body seemed to belong to large predators, some that Aearis had never seen or even heard described.

"Too soft," said the woman, hoarse, seductive, dangerous as the purr of a panther. She wore her golden hair shaved at the sides and braided back, and a long, thick scar crossed her brow from her right temple along the bridge of her nose and down to the left corner of her mouth. She was terrible and beautiful. Aearis felt a mad urge to touch the downy golden skin at the base of her ear.

The wild strangers interrupted their scrutiny of her only when the door opened once again and Bereneth slipped in. The willowy soldier took in the scene warily before moving forward and slipping her hand into Aearis's. The warmth of her fingers shocked Aearis's freezing skin.

"I would thank you," said Bereneth quietly, raising her eyes to meet the male elf's gaze squarely, "to back away from my sister. It is rude to stare."

The hunter's eyes narrowed as he evaluated Bereneth, tall, grim, pale, and steady. Her bright gaze bored into him until he took two steps back, inclining his head to her in a gesture of, if not submission, at least respectful concession of territory.

"Moroko," he said, pressing his fist to his breast. "Raka," he said, pointing to his companion, who made the same gesture.

"Bereneth," said the Silvan girl, imitating their greeting. "Aearis." At the sound of her name, Aearis hastened to complete the introductions, dropping Bereneth's hand to lift her fist to her chest.

Raka scrutinized her for a moment longer before turning her back to them both.

"You will help us?" she said to Gil-galad. It was neither a question nor a demand, but something in between. An invitation.

The star-crowned king rose to his feet and descended the seven steps from his throne. Slowly, forcefully, he lifted his fist and brought it to rest against his heart. It seemed answer enough for the Avari.

He met Aearis's eyes and smiled when she quirked a brow at him.

"You once told me that you had no songs to sing of dragons, my lady," he said. To her shock, there was the slightest of tremors in his voice. Not of fear, but of excitement, feverish and urgent. "Now you shall, if you and Lady Bereneth would come hunting with me."

Glorfindel frowned and seemed about to speak, but when his eyes met hers he appeared to think better of it. What had he found there, she wondered.

Dragons. The great worms, devourers, mind-twisters. She shivered suddenly, and in her mind's eye she saw again the gleam of Narya. Her heart was thundering, rising to Gil-galad's clarion call. Then, remembering herself, she turned to Bereneth, who smiled at the unspoken entreaty in her eyes.

"Lead on, Aearis. I shall follow."


*I'm using "man" in dialogue to refer to male elves because for the most part most of the dialogue is assumed to be in Sindarin, which has its own terms form male elf and female elf (ellon and elleth), distinct from male and female human (adan and adaneth). I think these can be distinguished easily enough from context, and usually when I mean male human I capitalize Man in the way that Tolkien tends to.

*Narya: The elven ring of fire. Given that at this point in history, Sauron still had his ring on him, the elven leaders were probably never wearing their rings until the One was cut from Sauron's finger. Tolkien's writing is quite insistently vague on the topic of elven magic, so I'm choosing to view it as a sort of "negotiation" with the natural elements and with the fëar of those around. So for the purposes of this story, I've decided that magic is an act of persuasion. Elves, who are more closely attuned to the life of the elements and the Songs of the world, are sometimes able to create music beautiful enough to influence the world. By extension of that mechanic, the elven rings are like duet partners, singing their own songs that can guide the wielder create new, more potent music.

*Avari: the Refusers, or the "dark elves." This is a topic on which, as far as I know, Tolkien furnished very little definitive information. Genetically, they seem to be a mix of the races that would become the Noldor and the Teleri, who stayed behind after awakening at Cuivienen. Based on the mainly linguistic essay "The Quendi and the Eldar," they seem to have split into a few tribes with distinct languages, all derived from primitive Quenya. So I've done my best to pick names that are just sort of Quenya-ish. As to culture, Noldorin scholars described them as primitive and hostile, but also Noldorin scholars were, by and large, dicks. If anyone has more knowledge of the Avari, I would welcome it!