Zillaryn combed her fingers through Sador's coarse mane as she braided along the horse's muscular neck. She heard the rustle of hay under small feet, and she smiled to herself as she glanced over her shoulder. She met curious eyes under a mop of red hair, "How may I help you today, Master Dolanen?" The young boy shifted back and forth on the other side of the door but remained silent. He watched how Zillaryn expertly tied the end of Sador's long braid and left the stall; Zillaryn looked back down at the boy and knotted the slight furrow to his small brow, "What troubles you, Dolanen?"

Dolanen's bottom lip trembled slightly, "You—You got hurt by the orcs."

Oh, pinig (little one), Zillaryn knelt in front of the child, taking his tiny hands in her own, "I promise you that I'm alright."

A tear slipped down the boy's face, "I could've helped you."

"Right, you could," Zillaryn cupped his face in her hand, "That evil yrch (Orc) wouldn't have stood a chance against you."

Without another word, the young boy moved onto the tips of his toes and threw his arms around her neck. Zillaryn felt a pull in her chest at the sweet gesture from one so young, "I promise I'm okay, Dolanen. Besides," She unwrapped his hands from around her neck and ruffled his hair, "Who else is going to teach you to wield that masterful sword?"

Dolanen offered a wide grin as his hand instinctively went to the tiny weapon at his hip, "But Papa says you're going away with the other elves."

"Never fear, Dolanen," Zillaryn stood back up and gave his hand one more squeeze, "You know I will always return to Rahnshell. More importantly, I will always return to you."

"Thanks for making me feel better, Zilla," Dolanen smiled again, "I'm gonna go take the linen down from the line outside the house."

"That's very kind of you to help your Naneth."

Dolanen's sweet features slid into a mischievous grin, "She doesn't know I'm going to take them."

With another smile, the little boy skipped out of the stable and into the waiting sun, leaving Zillaryn to laugh aloud to herself; That pinig (little one) is either going to rule the world or destroy it, she thought to herself. She collected the tools she had used to groom Sador, stored them back in the bucket, stood back up, turned around to take the bucket to the storage room, and stopped in her tracks. Her brow furrowing as the bucket drops to the ground.

Claanen reclined on the small terrace of the main hall with the Elvenking and his Guard Commander. Lunch had just been brought to them after a recess of the trade discussions had been called. Meetings had become heated with the Horse Lords of Rohan not agreeing to very generous offers in exchange for studs from their breeding herd. The decision was made to reconvene after tempers had cooled and logical discussion could prevail again.

Alistair chuckled to himself at the sight he looked out upon, "Tell me, Elder Claanen," Alistair gestured with his hand, "Is that young one always such a handful?"

Claanen followed the Commander's gaze and laughed. A wild red-haired boy ran around a linen line with a frazzled-looking woman chasing him with a wooden spoon. The boy was excitedly grabbing the handkerchiefs from the bar and rearranging them in their order, all the while leaving muddy handprints in his wake.

"Dolanen is assuredly a trouble-maker, to his parent's dismay," Claanen explained as he watched the scene unfold, "But, on the other hand, you will never meet a more genuinely kind soul than that boy right there."

"Children have a unique magic within them," Thranduil reflected. His stoic facade was well secured, but if one were to look close enough, there would be the hint of amusement lacing the edges of his gaze, "They have an uncanny ability to find joy and beauty in all that surrounds them."

The observation hung in the air between the men as they watched Dolanen wriggle from his mother's grasp, only to turn around and be scooped up into his father's arms with a shriek of laughter. A lone figure left the stable among all the joy in the bustling village, and Thranduil felt himself tense, though he didn't know why.

Zillaryn slowly emerged into the sunlight from the stable, and in an instant, Claanen was on his feet, walking in her direction. She had always been fair-skinned, but now her skin was drained of color, almost ashen. The two elves slid to the edge of their seats as Claanen reached her and took her hands within his, and both could see the Elder tense at the contact. He placed a hand on her cheek, forcing Zillaryn to look at him as they muttered words too soft for even Elvish ears to distinguish from this distance. Claanen looked back at the pair, giving a sign that he would return to them momentarily, then he turned his attention back to Zillaryn.

"I wonder if her injuries are disturbing her," Alistair guessed as they watched Claanen put a supportive arm around her shoulder and began guiding her in the direction of the tavern and her home.

"Perhaps," Thranduil mused, "I would like you to find out."

Without another word, Alistair left the Elvenking alone on the terrace.

Claanen set a cup of hot tea in front of Zillaryn as she sat at the small table of her room, "You're moving around too much, child," he observed, "You need to rest. Allow your body time to heal."

Zillaryn felt the warm liquid coat her throat as the aroma filled her sense. "Child?" She arched an eyebrow at the town Elder, "Do you forget that I am 2,000 years your senior, Claanen?"

Claanen seemed to remember at that moment who he was talking to and gave her a sheepish smile. Before he would respond, a voice spoke up from behind them, "In that case, Zillaryn," they turned to see Alistair's amused expression as he stood in the doorway, "Take it from someone who is 3,000 years your elder— Rest. It will do you no good to overwork yourself."

"As you say, Cano (Commander)."

Claanen rose and gestured for Alistair to take his seat, "I'll leave the two of you to speak until Zillaryn falls asleep."

Zillaryn scoffed as she took another long drink of the warm tea, "I'm not feeling remotely tired, Claanen."

The Elder offered Zillaryn an impish smile from the doorway and glanced down at the mug Zillaryn had set back down in front of her, "You will."

Claanen left a disbelieving Zillaryn staring after him with a final smirk as Alistair let out a boisterous laugh. Which only intensified as she shot him a stern look, "Don't shoot me a death glare pinig (little one)," Alistair chuckled, "I distinctly remember your Ada pulling similar stunts when you refused to listen to his orders to rest."

He watched as Zillaryn stiffened a moment and relaxed as she took another long sip of tea, "What happened in the stable? When you came out, you looked shaken."

Zillaryn stared forward for a long moment, her fingers wrapping around her upper arm, "I think I'll lay down for a while."

"Zilla, please—"

"I don't want to speak on it," Zillaryn cut him off with an unmistakable tremor in her voice. She stared at the cup of tea for a long moment before looking to her former Commander, "Please."

Her voice was so soft in its pleading that Alistair felt a sting of Sadness fill his chest. "Very well, pin maethor (little warrior). May we speak on this later?"

Alistair stood up with a slight nod, pressed a brief kiss into Zillaryn's hair, and left her alone in her room.

The moment the door closed, Zillaryn exhaled a shaky breath, unclenching her trembling hands that she had wrapped around her cup of tea. She ran her hands through her long hair as she sighed, "Well, that was horrible."

The evening feast was not as grand as the previous; only bottles of wine were set at the table rather than having Zillaryn and Melanor serving the whole evening. Zillaryn had changed into a brown tunic with forest green leggings; her hair pulled back in elegant braids.

She had eaten with Melanor and his wife, both excitedly chatting about the impending arrival of their first child before Zillaryn walked to the terrace to get some fresh air. The cool air stung her face as she took in a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"Tavern Keeper."

Zillaryn turned to see Melanor walking toward her with two glasses of wine, "Uh oh," Zillaryn accepted the glass and took a drink, "Addressing me so formally could only lead to trouble."

Melanor scoffed and rested his arms against the terrace ledge, Zillaryn soon following his movement, "What can I do for you, assistant Tavern Keeper?"

"I know that you'll soon be traveling back to Greenwood to deliver the wine casks to the Elvenking's Halls," Melanor took another sip of his wine, "But, Celine and I were wondering if you could— I mean if you want to— But you don't have to so please don't feel pressure—"

"Mel," Zillaryn put her hand on his arm, and he looked at her, "You're rambling."

"Sorry," Melanor smiled nervously and set his glass on the ledge, "Celine and I have talked a lot about this, and we would like you to be our little one's Godmother. Just in case anything should happen to us."

"Wonderful! Celine will be so happy," Melanor smiled, "If anything should happen to us, it will be your responsibility to ensure they become the most skilled swordsman this side of the Gap of Rohan."

Zillaryn laughed and smiled wide, "We both know that they will be trained as such regardless.

"Good," Melanor broke their embrace, "Very good. I need to go inform Celine."

Zillaryn watched as the father-to-be practically skipped back into the feast, closing the terrace door behind him as she softly smiled. He'll make a great Adar, she thought to herself and turned around out to the terrace. She took a long drink from her goblet as she watched the handful of soldiers who protected the small village. For the first time since the summit began, she felt a sense of peace until a throat cleared behind her.

She turned and internally groaned before narrowing her eyes, "What can I do for you?"

The man stepped closer to her as he took another long drink of his ale, not taking his eyes off her, "I wanted to apologize, Mistress Zillaryn, for my forwardness earlier today."

"Forwardness ? " Her voice had taken on a sharp edge, "Your definition of forwardness , Horse Lord, is cornering a person in the stable and trying to convince them to have a— What was the phrase you used again," Zillaryn pretended to think back to the event from earlier in the day, "A 'tumble in the hay , did I get that correct?"

A terrifying smile spread across his face as he walked closer to her, which Zillaryn reflected with moving backward until her back pressed against the ledge of the terrace. "I'm sorry, my lady," He stopped almost chest-to-chest to her, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath, "But after seeing you put that Rohirrim in his place the other night, I knew that I would need to make you mine."

Zillaryn attempted to step to the side but was blocked by a giant arm, "Perhaps there is some other way I can express my apology." She grimaced as his other hand drifted up the outside of her thigh, his rough and calloused fingers digging into her skin. He pressed his body closer to her as his hot, foul breath spread across her neck. He grabbed her wrist and attempted to slide her hand across his leg as he whispered in a gruff tone, "I have an idea of how to apologize and make you feel good."

Zillaryn's heart rate spiked during the unwanted advance, her eyes flickering to the closed terrace door. Her hand that wasn't grasped in his hand slid into the outside pocket of her robes and wrapped her fingers around the short dagger that she always kept in her pocket. With one swift movement, she pressed the dagger between this drunk fool's legs, stilling his actions as she clenched her teeth and glowered at his now shocked expression.

"What I want ," Zillaryn spoke slow and precise as she straightened up, "Is for you to get your disgusting hands off of me. I want you to get out of my village and never come back here again ."

Emphasizing the last word, she ripped her other arm from his grip and continued to push him away with the dagger. Rage seeped into the Horse Lords eyes as he was rebuffed a second time, and he moved faster than Zillaryn expected, gripping her wrist that held the dagger against him and twisted it outward until her arm was at an awkward angle. "I will not be rejected by a nobody-elven cunt."

Zillaryn leaned backward as he pressed her tighter against the ledge until she couldn't move. He raised his free hand above her, and she looked away, squeezing her eyes closed as she awaited the blow as his hand descended towards her.

A blow that would never come.

"I believe the lady has given you an order not to touch her again ."

The velvet voice was dangerously low, and Zillaryn's eyes shot open at the sound.

The Elvenking towered over the Horse Lord, a look of disgust spreading across his usually indifferent features. With a single move, he spun the man away from where Zillaryn was against the wall, placing himself between the drunk man and the scared elleth . "Was there a part of her request you did not understand, Lord Porvus?"

"This doesn't concern you, Elvenking."

"Perhaps it wasn't. But," Thranduil's eyes narrowed further, "When I see a repugnant excuse of a man, such as yourself, attempt to have his way with someone who clearly wants nothing to do with you, that does concern me."

"If you don't get out of my way, you will regret it!" Lord Porvus puffed his chest out, "Who the fuck do you think you are?! You—"

"I am Thranduil Oropherion," Thranduil's grip tightened around the Horse Lords throat as he looked down his nose at him, "Warrior from the Battle of Dagorlad, Elvenking to the Woodland Elves of Eryn Lasgalen (Greenwood the Great) ," He took a step closer to the man and relished the sight of fear flashing across his face, "and I will not see you stay another night within this village."

Thranduil pushed the man backward, and he was stopped by two elven soldiers who seemed to manifest from the shadows. Thranduil glanced to the soldiers before staring at him again, "Escort Lord Porvus back to his lodgings and ensure that his entire delegation is gone before the sun rises."

The soldiers gave a short bow, leading the still-stunned man away from the terrace. Thranduil took several deep breaths to calm his temper. " Goheno nin, hiril vuin. (Forgive me, my Lady) . I could not watch that poor excuse of a man—"

He paused as he turned around, realizing that he was alone on the terrace.

He walked to the ledge of the terrace, his chest tightening as he watched the lone silhouette walk back toward the tavern, and he sighed to himself.

A/N: I hope you guys are enjoying the story. If you are, please leave a review! XOXO, Presephone