"Do not trouble your hearts overmuch with thought of the road tonight. Maybe the paths that you each shall tread are already laid before your feet, though you do not see them."

- The Fellowship of the Ring

Chapter Four

TA 2940, May 12th.

Aínwar released a fraction of the breath she had been holding. The Elvenking stared down at her with an imposing demeanor rivaled only by the largest, most intimidating dragons from the waste. But she had faced beasts much larger, with hellfire spilling from their toothy maws, and she would not be — refused to be — deterred by some man sitting upon a throne, immortal being or not.

Regardless, Mirkwood was his kingdom and he wielded the power here…and, someway or another, she had gone and convinced him to let her live another day, for he hadn't removed her head.

Not yet.

"I respect that you are king of this wood and do not trust me," she was saying, hardly registering her own words. He had decided he was done listening to her long ago; everything she said would only go unheard from here on out. Henceforth, her first priority was to survive. "So put me where you think I will do no harm; it makes no difference to me. I only ask that, wherever I am imprisoned, that I am given a fire in the meantime. My flesh grows cold without dragonfire to warm my heart."

"I do not think you are in any position to make such silly requests!" the Elvenking laughed. She internally winced at his malice, but her face remained unchanged. "And if you burn my entire wood down? Set fire to my kingdom?"

"Because if I truly meant you harm, Elvenking," she said, "I would have already done it."

He withdrew, sneering. "Take her away," he said coldly.

Aínwar sighed, having been resigned to her fate from the beginning. The guard behind her jostled her wrists with a firm, "Move!" and turned her around. She caught one last look of the king, frozen by fear, before she was shoved away.

"Do not give her the flame she desires," his command echoed from behind, "lest she remember what she is, and burn us as they burned Erebor!"

Aínwar's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. "I recognize these words…" she whispered. "Wait…wait—!"

She struggled against the guard, her thoughts going wild amongst frenzied pleas of "No, I must speak to him!" and "I beg you, just one more minute!" but she was thrust into the cavernous hallways, and with a thunderous rumble the doors to the throne room slammed shut.

"Keep moving!" the guard ordered, pushing her forward.

Later, Aínwar told herself, her spirits somehow both destroyed and rejuvenated at the same time, there will be another opportunity. You must move your feet. You must earn more time here. Survival, Aínwar. You must survive first.

After their negotiations, Tauriel had insisted upon covering Aínwar's head with a blindfold so that she would not see the entrance to the kingdom or the path through the woodland to its gates. Aínwar, while mildly affronted by this, had swiftly agreed; she had never expected the elves to believe her intentions harmless and trustworthy, and if she were in their position, she would have done the same. She had allowed them to bag her head before ever entering the forest, praying that their guide was true and she would make it through without stumbling headfirst into a chasm.

Now, without her blinds, she could see all the glory of Mirkwood.

The kingdom was vast and labyrinth-like, an underground fortress supported by columns of intricate design; the early morning sun filtered in from above, casting warm light on the shimmering streams below. Many rounding staircases wound through the halls, through the columns, past blue waterfalls, and loose, unkempt greenery — some went up, and others went down, and a few led to doors just as grand as those to the throne room.

The air smelled unfamiliar, but somehow, so wonderful and soothing…and it was not until their company marched past a bubbling stream, where the spray of water touched the damp dirt…that Aínwar realized it was the scent of rain upon the earth.

She was deeply moved by it. In the waste, where it always remained frigid except for the fleeting and all too brief heart of summer, it never rained. She inhaled until her chest felt like it would burst, wishing she could breathe it forever and feeling despaired that it would be taken from her so quickly.

The guards, flanked by Tauriel and another blond-haired elf, escorted her through the maze. By now, as she had also expected, the morning lull of the kingdom had been disrupted by her arrival — she could see the flighty shadows of elves all around, hiding in their halls, murmuring what she assumed were many sorts of spiteful names and curses.

Aínwar could do nothing but keep her feet steady and her head high, even when the guard interrupted her mostly placid thoughts with, "Nowhere to fly in here, dragon-fiend."

She glanced at Tauriel and her companion; the two were conversing at a hushed, inaudible volume, and he seemed to be scolding her. Even though Tauriel had nearly cut her throat herself, Aínwar felt a strange attachment to her and knew without a doubt that she would not have made it this far without her help. There was an inexplicable, kindred spirit she recognized in the elven woman…something she saw within herself: a profound committal to what she thought best for her people.

They descended a winding set of stairs, the air growing colder and damper, and all of the natural sunlight was replaced by dim torches. The dungeon guards stepped aside so they could navigate the dangerously narrow paths; Aínwar was thankful that she had spent so many centuries picking her way across loose stones upon high mountaintops, or else she feared she may have tripped and fallen to the blackness below.

As they walked, men and beasts and creatures of all sorts reached their grimy hands through the bars, grabbing at Aínwar's horns and her hair, pinching at her skin, calling her all sorts of disgusting names she dared not acknowledge. The taunt she remembered the most vividly after the fact had something to do with her mother copulating with a dragon…and still she kept her chin up, even if she had to blink back a few tears here and there.

"In here," said the elven guard coarsely.

They had reached a small cell, into which no light shined, and it was far from the chaos and noise of the upper floors. Aínwar swallowed the stone in her throat. She had accepted the trials and risks she might face when taking on this quest, but so far from home — in a place so very opposite to her snowy peaks, from where she could always see the aurora — it hurt her in a very physical, palpable way.

Breathing in, wishing desperately for bravery, she stepped into the cell. Her wrists were untied and, before she could turn around, the iron bars shut with a resounding clatter.

The others left without a word. Aínwar exchanged a hasty glance with Tauriel, who had not directly spoken to her since they were beyond the boundaries of Mirkwood. Her lips parted, as if she meant to speak…but then she briskly walked away, even her light footfalls echoing in that huge, empty chasm of space.

Aínwar massaged her raw wrist, then sat on the edge of the cot. This small, dank cell did not feel much different than her cave at the base of Dùn Ga'thuum. If she closed her eyes and imagined the waste past those iron bars, she could feel it. She heard the stillness, and the songs of the deep, dark ice; she felt the heat of the crackling fire, and smelled the pine smoke.

Or so she thought. Once her eyes opened, she was reminded of the bitter reality.

She crawled into her straw bed and, shivering, attempted to sleep…feeling colder and lonelier than she ever had in the Northern Waste.

x

TA 2940, May 13th.

In the end, Aínwar could not sleep — she stayed awake throughout the night with her legs pulled to her body, thinking into the early hours of morning.

…lest she remember what she is, and burn us as they burned Erebor.

When she had looked into the Elvenking's eyes for the first time, they had not spoken to her; even now, as she reflected on them, she could not be convinced that he was the same person who had treated her so tenderly. A small part of her wondered if there was nothing more to it, that perhaps the voice was simply one born of visions and psychedelic brews…

But — still — the phrasing was exactly the same, the inflections and the tone…all of it. Despite being expressed through fear and hatred, the Elvenking's words had struck a chord in her, ringing her heart like the vibrations of a taut string. There was a pang of…something, which sat like a slab of lead deep in the pit of her stomach. It hurt. Genuinely, and tangibly.

She knew that the Duwín-ma worked in enigmatic ways. Her grandmother had seen war and strife, her mother had seen her own child, and Aínwar had seen…

Well, she wasn't quite sure. It was impossible to tell without the full perspective of hindsight. Was it…dare she say it — love? Heartbreak? There were other emotions in her visions: insecurity and anguish…but also laughter and belonging. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once.

One thing was certain: the Elvenking had been involved.

Thranduil, she mused, thinking that his name sounded regal. It rolled off of her tongue, quite easily. She liked it.

Though his people were lovely and fair, Aínwar had not expected him to be as handsome as he was. She noted that he had dressed in thick swathes of silver robes; crowned by a glorious tangling of stag horns and spring leaves; pale, starlight hair, and so very different from her own, sweeping down over his broad shoulders to his waist.

Aínwar thought she boasted significant height for a woman, but perhaps she had severely and foolishly overestimated herself, having never met anyone else for size reference, after all…for even at her height, he had still been much taller. She had been impressed by his sharp features — the long, straight nose; the unsmiling lips, always parted ever so slightly, as if he were in a perpetual state of intrigue; the weight of his heavy brows…

…and, she acknowledged with a faint-hearted breath, such blue eyes.

She pulled in her legs closer, biting her lip. The elves were just as aesthetically pleasing as described in the stories, if not more. But, as she swore she would, she had dug her feet into the ground and made him very aware that she could be just as proud.

Aínwar felt heated, thinking of how he had recoiled at her face. How could the man from her dreams, who touched her cheeks like he was holding a snowflake, possibly be the same man who could look at her like she was something disgusting at the bottom of his boot? Who could throw her in the dungeons without a second thought?

He simply could not be, she concluded sadly, falling back down onto her side with her legs still tucked. Her hair spilling over her face, she was momentarily relieved by the darkness, like it was her own blindfold to the confusing and chaotic things happening around her.

"That was a brave thing you did."

Aínwar brushed her hair aside, and upon seeing her visitor, quickly sat up. Tauriel — who had hair like autumn, who had shown her a sliver of decency — stood there gripping a tray of food and water. She set it down and slid it beneath the bars. The two women idled in their spots, unmoving, trying to maneuver the tension between them.

"Quite honestly, I doubted the importance of your mission," Tauriel spoke first. "I thought I would look like a fool, barging into the throne room and demanding an audience on your behalf. I still I wonder if I am…but seeing you stand up to the Elvenking like that, having faith in your quest, and with such conviction…I must say, you have made a believer out of me. Not many would have dared."

"Better to have tried than stay home and die regardless," Aínwar sighed, reaching for the water.

"Why do you need a fire? Does it give you strength?"

Aínwar desperately longed for the Tù'gathar. Even a handmade fire would do. She felt a wave of exhaustion overcome her; she leaned further into the wall, briefly closing her eyes to catch her breath.

"Without it, I would survive," she explained, "but it certainly makes things more difficult. I am very fatigued. My senses will right themselves eventually. The first few weeks are the hardest."

Tauriel crouched, some emotion — curiosity, or worry? — intent in her gaze. "Do you eat food, or does the fire mitigate your hunger?"

"Yes, I eat and drink." She delicately sipped her water, trying to make it last, but her throat remained dry all the same. "I would not expect the races of Middle Earth to understand, but dragons — all of us — have a perpetual flame burning within us. It is not an actual fire inside of our bodies, more like…like…"

"Like magic," suggested Tauriel, "or like a soul?"

Aínwar nodded. "When Zenta'ganna assisted Ëarendil in slaying the Black, she gave her own flame—"

"The Tù'gathar," Tauriel interrupted without modesty.

"Yes," Aínwar said with a smile, almost forgetting Tauriel had been there in the throne room as she recounted the legend. Her pronunciation was perfect. "Most dragons misinterpret the stories. They believe that I attend to a physical hearth. They ask me where it is…but as much as I love my dragons, some are not to be trusted. I am afraid others would take advantage of it."

She paused, knowing that revealing this information could be dangerous, even fatal if it reached the wrong ears. But Tauriel was listening attentively, and there was something about her that kept Aínwar's words effortlessly flowing.

"Civil unrest disturbs the Northern Waste," she said. "They do not know that I am the hearth, that Ancalagon's fire resides—" She put her hand to her chest. "—in here. It is also the fire of Zenta'ganna, both of which exist inside of me simultaneously. Light and dark, battling each other forever…but that is only a small part of it. It would be tragically simple to release the darkness. Only my living body stands between the Black and those who would release him, the largest, mightiest dragon who ever lived. Does…does that make sense, Tauriel?"

Tauriel processed this information. "I understand," she said, her voice darkening. "I am sorry that the king does not understand how important you are. I know he cares, but…sometimes, he chooses to ignore that which does not directly affect his kingdom."

"This would affect not only Mirkwood," Aínwar said, "but all of Middle Earth and beyond. The Black must not be awoken. I must live, so that he may sleep. At least, I cannot be found and exploited this far deep into the ground. Things are better this way…probably."

"Why did you not share this with Thranduil?"

"I meant to," she admitted, feeling most sorry for the fearful king, "but, as you saw, he assumed the worst of me from the start. And, Tauriel, I…I have not told this to anyone else. Only three of my closest friends from the waste know this, and I trust them with absolute confidence to uphold a vow of silence. I do not know why, but I wanted to tell you. My heart tells me that you are here to help."

Tauriel smiled tightly. "I feel the same way about you. You have my word: I will not share this information with anyone. Not even Thranduil…that pigheaded dolt."

"Thank you," Aínwar breathed, reassured. She nervously chuckled. "I feel like a very small fish in a very big ocean, a mere child in the eyes of elves and dragons. I am less afraid, thanks to you."

"And how old are you?"

"Three hundred and ninety-seven."

"Indeed, you are!" she laughed, like a child, seeming excited by this for some reason. All of a sudden, she stood up and curtly addressed the guard down the hall: "We must give her fire. Should she abuse this charity, I will take the blame myself…and slay her myself, as well."

The whole charade came off as very serious, but as she inclined her head, she gave Aínwar a playful wink. "I do not know when I can return, but I vow to," she promised. "I will bring you everything to make fire — a small one, of course."

Aínwar clutched her water cup, feeling even tinier than before and awash with gratitude. "Thank you. I—" She meant to say more but could not find the words. "— just…thank you."

Tauriel nodded, then walked away without another word. Aínwar listened to her footsteps until all was quiet again. She leaned her head against the bars, closing her eyes with a loud exhale. The guard on duty edged near the perimeters of her cell, glaring suspiciously at her, as if he expected her to breathe fire at any moment.

She wanted to toss out a snide remark, just for the fun of it...but refusing to give the elves any more ammunition to use against her, she quietly sipped the remainder of her water and greatly wished that she had walked alongside an ally like Tauriel from the beginning.

x

Tauriel did indeed bring supplies to make a fire, a detail which somehow remained secret from the Elvenking for the weeks they spent together; with every new guard that reported for duty, Tauriel would insist that the Elvenking had ordered it, which Aínwar could not believe was true…she uncertainly surmised that Legolas, whom she had come to learn was Thranduil's only son, had something to do with it.

Regardless, she had her fire and plenty of time to sit around and consider what she would say when finally released — if she was ever released.

Tauriel was innately curious and made visits often. In the days that she came, she would sit on the stone floor — bow and quiver resting upon her crossed legs, smelling like the forest — and ask many questions about Aínwar's homeland.

Initially, they were basic and naive: What truly lies beyond the Ered Mithrin? The dragons, do they speak to you like a friend? Have you ever ridden one?

She would gently press the pads of her thumbs to Aínwar's ears, feeling how they were pointed like her own; she touched the smoothness of her horns too, and leaned in close to see the golden scales scattered across Aínwar's cheekbones, like glittering freckles.

"Fascinating," she would whisper. "Quite beautiful…in their own way."

Then she started asking questions with many layers to unfold, those which required hours of storytelling for context: Ancalagon the Black, how can you host his soul within your body? Does it not kill you? How did Zenta'ganna come to look like a mortal woman? So you are able to procreate with any race?

Truthfully — and she made sure Tauriel was aware of this — Aínwar did not always know the answers; and the elf would nod her understanding and disappear for another few days, only to return with more questions. Sometimes, she brought back knowledge learned from the scribes and scholars within Mirkwood's kingdom, but for the most part, she arrived at the same conclusions Aínwar always had: that Aínwar's lineage was dictated by a very strange magic, and it was old. Far older than anything than the woodland elves had ever written down in their history books.

"Perhaps Lord Elrond of Rivendell would know," Tauriel said one day, broodingly.

"Who is that?"

It was then, with dismay and outright embarrassment, that Aínwar realized that she had not asked Tauriel many questions about Middle Earth in the past fortnight. She had been so distracted talking about herself, and worrying about the state of things in the waste…her childhood self would be absolutely ashamed.

"He is an elven lord, far to the west of here," Tauriel replied sympathetically, probably wondering how anyone could be as blatantly ignorant as Aínwar.

She delved into a lengthy explanation of the differences between the elves in Middle Earth and their past — she summarized in great detail the Calaquendi, the Sindar (Aínwar listened most faithfully, wondering how much of the Matron Mother's tales stayed true to history), the Undying Lands, and everything else in between. And Aínwar, leaning against the bars with a slight smile playing at her lips, could have fallen asleep to her rhythmic and charismatic storytelling, warmed by the firelight.

When Tauriel finally caught up to the present in the Third Age, she added surreptitiously, "You know, Lord Elrond was summoned to Mirkwood the day after your arrival. The Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn from Caras Galadhon too, as well as a few others...they are all coming to meet with you and discuss your fate. I believe Thranduil has no idea how to handle you."

"I do not need to be handled," Aínwar said waspishly, and Tauriel looked sympathetic at this too, like she completely understood. "Will the king named Oakenshield attend this meeting?"

Tauriel was highly amused. "You keep throwing that name around. Did you not see the anger in the king's eyes when you said it?" She leaned closer to the bars, smiling. "It was very entertaining, seeing how you reacted to his anger. I am most envious of your brazenness."

"Like I said," Aínwar said, feeling a little petty, "I know nothing about the politics between the races of Middle Earth. Most of the history I was taught goes further back to the First Age. Whatever frivolous matters are between those two, I care not!"

"It is hardly frivolous," said Tauriel. "The Durin's Folk are — were — greedy men. Erebor was a mountainous palace of grandeur, filled to capacity with more treasure than anyone could ever imagine. So glorious, in fact, that it would also become their tomb. Smaug was tempted by these treasures…but you know this part of the story."

She ran her thumbs along the others, thoughtfully. "When Smaug rained his devastation upon Erebor, Thranduil was called to aid the dwarves…but he abandoned them." At this, a flash of anger passed over her face. "Oakenshield has not forgiven him since. And rightfully so."

"Why would Thranduil do that?"

Tauriel bitterly cast her eyes downward. "Spite, perhaps? The dwarves had fashioned the white gems of Lasgalen for the Elvenking. They were fashioned and handcrafted for Êlúriel, his wife. The day we visited the Lonely Mountain to behold these jewels, the dwarves would not relinquish them, having demanded three times the price that was agreed upon. Feeling scorned, the Elvenking left with hatred in his heart. That was the day Smaug came. We could have turned around…we could have helped them…but Thranduil did nothing."

Aínwar had not seen or heard of the Elvenqueen, Êlúriel, but she was beginning to accept that she had been seriously mistaken. She determined to rid her mind of any expectations that Thranduil was the man from her visions.

"Thranduil is a caring king," Tauriel went on. "I've seen it before…in how he treats his son…how he protects our people. Spite may have encouraged him, but ultimately, I do not think he wanted to rally elven lives against Smaug. Have you seen it, Firekeeper — the destruction a single dragon can cause?"

Aínwar bit her lip. "I have not," she said reluctantly.

She had always known deep down…the dragons only followed her because that was how things had been for thousands of years. They kept quiet; they obeyed orders, sometimes unwillingly; and the few that had known her mother and the preceding Firekeepers helped maintain the peace. But Aínwar, at such an insignificant three hundred and ninety-seven years of age, had never seen a dragon's devastation. There was nothing to devastate in the Northern Waste. Her knowledge was not based on experience — only the tales of the Black's army, and how his fall sunk an entire continent.

Tauriel nodded. She did not voice exactly what Aínwar was thinking, probably out of pity. "Well, I admire your courage," she said conclusively. "I cannot imagine what you are feeling."

"Thank you again," said Aínwar, smiling weakly. "Your companionship brings me sanity in this world beneath the trees. I have never been so far away from the sky before…"

For the first time since she closed the Matron Mother's eyes, Aínwar began to cry.

"I am afraid," she whispered. "I knew what I had to do before I got here. I had purpose, on which I was prepared to die for. But now, I almost do not want to leave this cell. I do not want to face these kings and lords and ladies of yours, to let them judge me and my intentions. I hope I can communicate that I am pure of heart, that I only want to help. But…but my meeting with the Thranduil, it was not—"

"Productive?" Tauriel asked, laughing softly. "That is in his nature. I think you will find the other lords of Middle Earth to be much more agreeable."

Aínwar hoped so. She had been formulating a strategy to enter Erebor, with or without Oakenshield, so that she might have the opportunity to send Smaug home — it was the only way she thought to stop, or at the very least, postpone a climax of tension in the waste. It was a foolish and embarrassingly underdeveloped plan, but a plan nonetheless, and she would probably need the council's permission.

"Tauriel?" she asked timidly, just as the she-elf was getting up to leave. "The Elvenqueen…will I meet her?"

Something about Thranduil's dilemma had resonated with her; she had never loved anyone in the same way a man would love his wife, but she could try to imagine. Should she gain access to the mountain, she fully intended to return the white gems of Lasgalen and, thus, hoped to meet with the Elvenqueen to properly explain herself.

Tauriel tilted her head, intrigued.

"The queen has been dead for a long time," she said. "Thranduil has not been the same since. I know what you are thinking, Aínwar. I can read your intentions. Your foolhardy bravery might save Middle Earth…but I am beginning to think that your heart might be what saves our king."

x

TA 2940, May 27th.

The next time Tauriel visited, Legolas accompanied her.

Tauriel hung back near the stairs, granting them a private conversation. Up close, Aínwar could see the resemblance between the Elvenking and the prince of Mirkwood: they had the same cutting jawline, pale hair, thin lips, and steely, wise eyes — Legolas, on the other hand, seemed quicker to smile, and the overall atmosphere he exhibited was far kinder and serene. When he approached her cell, she immediately stood and bowed, feeling like it was the right thing to do.

"No need," the prince said, holding up his hand with a slight bow of his head. He surveyed her with polite scrutiny. "I must admit…Tauriel and I have known each other many years. I trust her with my life, despite—" At this, he looked pointedly back at her. "—having irresponsible judgment at times. But her intentions are always true, and she believes in you. I had to see you for myself."

"I am sorry if I have disrupted the natural order of things here," Aínwar said regretfully, unable to keep herself from bowing again. "I have been made aware that there are dangers, increasingly so, prowling about Mirkwood. I understand that you are only being protecting what is important to you…I would exercise the same vigilance if a stranger had come into my mountains."

"An apology!" said Legolas, lifting a brow. "You are off to a good start."

"I am no primitive savage from the wilderness," she joked back, "and, contrary to your father's beliefs, am not here for gold, glory, or gore."

"You are a strange creature then, for in all the realms of men and dragons and everything in between, we all want at least one of those things."

"As I told your Elvenking," Aínwar said, smiling thinly, "I only do whatever duty necessitates. My purpose is to serve, and to serve is to protect what is most valuable: all things done in love."

"That I understand very well." Legolas returned the smile, but it was warm and genuine. "My father may not see that, but I believe Lord Elrond and the Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon will. They are wise, perceptive, and above all, trusting of what is good at heart. At the very least, I am sure they will agree your arrival was fated to happen…and fate, they do not intrude upon. All will unfold as it should. Do not fear, Aínwar."

Hearing her name said so tenderly, after having been grabbed and pinched and cursed, nearly brought tears to her eyes.

"So tell me," Legolas continued mildly, "are you able to fly?"

Aínwar laughed. "I cannot," she said. She laughed even louder at the prince's almost comical, and very teasing, look of disappointment. "The sky and all the stars above are sacred to dragonkind. It is our home, where we rightfully belong. It was Zenta'ganna's greatest sacrifice, relinquishing her wings. She was doomed to a life upon the earth, where she would always look up, yearning to be joined with Ëarendil the Evening Star once again."

"Did she love him?"

"I like to think so. But such things are not in our destiny, to love a being of flesh." She pursed her lips, hesitating. "May I show you?"

"Of course," Legolas said with well-disguised apprehension.

"Do not tell Tauriel I showed you this. I think she takes great pride in knowing that I have bequeathed her all the secrets of dragonkind."

"Oh, most definitely. Hurry now, she is giving me an eye…"

Chuckling, Aínwar loosened the top of her clothes and turned around with mild modesty. Raised scars ran down perpendicular to her spine, all the way from her shoulder blades to the dip of her back, their milky white color a stark contrast against her tawny skin.

"You were born with those scars?" Legolas asked quietly.

"Yes," said Aínwar, dressing herself again. Feeling suddenly cold and exposed, she edged closer to her small fire. "They are a testament to what we, as Firekeepers, forfeited in exchange for peace. When I doubt myself or my purpose, I touch them. I remind myself that I have little entitlement to the luxuries of life and, for things to go on as they have and should always be, I must put duty before my own personal wishes."

"We are all deserving of the wonders life gives us."

Aínwar's hands paused over the fire. She took a deep breath. "Easily said as a being undying."

"But you are nearly four-hundred years old. You are not immortal?"

"I will die when my calling is served," Aínwar said solemnly. "Worry not, Legolas, I will have my one true prayer granted in the end. When I birth a daughter, I will touch the sky with my own wings and pass into the stars, like my mother and the mothers before her. A miserable existence upon the earth is a small price to pay."

Legolas steeped into thoughtful silence.

"We do not yet know your mission," he said eventually, "and I realize you wish to withhold that information until you are seen before the council…but as she does, I believe in you and your quest. I greatly appreciate your honesty with me, Aínwar."

Aínwar smiled softly. "Anything to keep my head another day, my prince."

"If you present yourself to the council with the same candor, you may get to see your quest to the end, after all." At this, Legolas whisked forth a set of jangling keys, and Aínwar's heart nearly skipped a beat. "They are here, and they await your acquaintance most eagerly."

TBC