He had been a fool. A woefully, ignorant fool to have fled the council chamber in such a flurry of chaos.
The forest had called to him and within it a presence that shook the trees at their roots. Like the waters of an ocean he had never seen being tugged back to the shore and in his mind Thranduil had seen the grey woods, trees blotting out the sun and the forest twisting around him as a girl shrouded in grey ran blindly through the mist. He had known for sure this time that his daughter was alive. He could feel her vibrant presence bounce against the calmness of the forest. There was no denying the quiet yet terrible hurricane that followed her wherever she went and Thranduil had fled the council chamber ready to scour the entire forest to find her.
He yanked the yellow-fletched arrow from the tree with a grunt and studied the broadhead through misted eyes. The arrowhead had been fashioned from iron, thin but sharp teeth had been painstakingly carved into the metal; creating a head that would snag onto the enemy's flesh causing blinding pain if they tried to pull it out. The yellow fletching had been wound in a crisscrossing pattern that Thranduil immediately recognized as the same pattern that his warriors used.
Whoever had attempted to kill him was one of the Eldar. More importantly they were from his kingdom.
If they wanted the throne, they could have taken his life there and then. But they had purposefully misdirected their shot. Whoever this was playing a cruel game with him. Three arrows had been embedded at his feet by an unknown elf, unwilling to kill him, but cocky enough to evade and lure him to a bog. Thranduil plucked the other two arrows from the mud, his knuckles paling from his grip. A target board had been painted onto his back from the first day the Silvan people had seen his father as their leader, ever since he placed that crown upon his head Thranduil had known that he would either die in duty of the crown, or because he bore it.
Over his long years there had been a handful of attempts on his life, his personality- no doubt- had much to do with them. Thranduil was well aware of the fact that many people did not like him and due to his indifferent attitude to well- everything- he was sure that anyone would try to take him out.
He needed to send word to Legolas and Renieth for their immediate return to the stronghold. The crown prince and princess would be next and he had sent them into the darkest reaches of the forest to destroy that infernal spider's nest.
"So, it is true then." He whispered to himself and glanced helplessly to his elk who padded over to him. It had not been his Lostoriel who wore his mother's necklace. It was not her who pulled at his heart each time he gazed East. And it was- no, surely it could not have been her who had shot at him? And yet-
Thranduil shuddered at the thought. He refused to believe that any of his children would kill him. Lostoriel was impulsive and hot-headed, but she was no kin-slayer. That was if it had been her in the bog.
His elk butted Thranduil's arm, his large dark eyes staring up at him with what Thranduil swore was sympathy. the elk puffed warm air through his nostrils and Thranduil stroked his snout, "I thought I knew for certain that it was her Barahon. I was sure of it…How could I have been so blatantly foolish? I have blind to anything else but this..."
His long, muddied robes fluttered in the wind that drove cold tears across his face, "Through Imladris nor Caras Galadhon has she passed for no word has been sent…" Thranduil leant his head against Barahon's, heaving a shuddering sigh of defeat. He had been searching for her for months now, half of his guard had been scouring every inch of the forest, spending weeks at a time patrolling every border, sending word out to their allies of a missing elf and still finding nothing. Though their friendship had become strained over these passed decades he knew that Elrond would not withhold such a thing from him. Surely he would not?
Barahon snorted warm air into his face and grunted softly, the elf fell further onto him. But Thranduil refused to accept defeat, to give in to the hopelessness that washed over him. He flickered out like a flame caught in the wind, his song dimmed until silence filled him. And Thranduil shook, bile rising to his throat, he felt thin and hollow like a dying tree before it fell.
What he had felt that night of the wind was a fool's hope. Lostoriel was dead. Taken at the hands of a dragon. She was not coming back.
And yet it had felt so real. The joy sprung up within him, dancing, giddy joy like the leaves on the wind and he had known it was her. And as far as he knew the enchantment on the necklace would not fail him.
"Thranduil?" A familiar voice called out to him, but he ignored them.
Lostoriel was dead. And he had raised Legolas's hopes, he had encouraged him to believe that his sister lived. And oh, how he regretted that he had.
"What am I to tell him?" he asked into the wind.
"I have not the answer you seek." came the low rumble of Astordil's voice from behind, followed by the muffled steps of her horse. Her hand clasped his shoulder and Thranduil gasped down a strangled sob. His legs shook beneath him, Astordil's steady hand on his back was the only thing holding him upright. "What on earth possessed you to flee from the council chambers in such a hurry? You scared us half-way to death!"
"I have failed us all. I have failed her."
Astordil moved to his side and gently turned him towards her, but Thranduil pulled away. He refused to meet her dark eyes and let his head hang in shame.
"What do you mean mellon-nin?" She whispered, looking over his head to where a tall figure upon a stocky horse cantered towards them.
Still Thranduil would not look at her and the dark-haired elf grew worried. Over the passed few months he had been growing quieter, either locking himself away in his study or chasing after what he firmly believed was his daughter. Lostoriel. Who had become her daughter. Astordil had firmly believed in Thranduil's intuition, she had ever since they were elflings. However, just this once, a part of her heart refused to believe him. She found the courage to ask, "Thranduil?"
"I was so sure that it was her Astordil. I could feel it in my bones, in my heart. I led you all astray… Once before she ran and I could not stop her from-" He sucked in a shuddering breath and the helplessness upon his face tugged at Astordil's heart. "What if this time I could have done things differently?"
"Nonsense Thranduil. You have no reason to apologise. You have done no such thing." Astordil embraced him fiercely. She would have smirked at the fact that he was still an entire head shorter than her had it not been for the way his body shook and her shoulder dampened. She knew that the fight he had with Lostoriel still plagued his mind, that no matter how hard Thranduil tried he could not force their vicious words out of his mind. For it haunted him constantly and the regret ate at him.
"You know what you felt. Do not let yourself believe otherwise." Though Astordil was on the verge of tears her low voice broke no argument, "Just because we have not yet found her does not mean that you were wrong. Nor does it mean that she is not out there somewhere. We will find her Thranduil."
"She's right you know." The squelch of Merenon's horse plucking its way through the bog met their ears as a lean, short shadow emerged from the greyness. Finally, they made it to solid ground and the lean elf slid off the massive mare, leaving the reins tied in a knot on the saddle. His long hair swished passed his scarred face as he paced towards them, his gait disrupted by a slight limp on his right.
He raised his eyebrows in question at Astordil, feeling her distress within himself. She shook her head sadly and Merenon's stomach dropped. He laid a firm hand on Thranduil's shoulder, "You did what was right by us all. Including Lostoriel. Had you had that experience, felt that instinct and ignored it then perhaps there would be something to apologise for." This time Thranduil did turn around and Merenon inhaled sharply. For his face was gaunt, his eyes hollow and the gentle glow that usually emanated around him had disappeared. Instinctively, Merenon grabbed his forearm and clasped firmly, like he had many times on the battle field.
"Just because our search has found us nothing yet does not mean that it is over. You have not failed us mellon-nin. You have not failed Lostoriel. There is yet hope. Gweston."
For a moment Thranduil stood there dumbfounded, he half-expected Galion to leap from the trees an engulf him in another hug. Thankfully, that did not happen, though Thranduil did wonder where his old friend was. It was unusual for Galion to remain behind whilst the three of them were out. Finally, he shook his head and met both their determined gazes.
"Hannon le. I mean it." Thranduil clasped Merenon's forearm and then Astordil's, bringing their foreheads to meet his. They had been at his side for millennia and he was grateful that they would remain so until death take them, or Valinor greet them.
"Planning to shoot some wild boar with those?" Asked Merenon a dark cloud brewing upon his face as eyed out the three arrows still clasped in Thanduil's shaking hand.
"Thranduil?" Astordil snagged one from his grasp and studied it, a hand already reaching for her own quiver, "Where did you get these?"
"Someone tried to shoot me." He said calmly. Too calmly.
"What?" They exclaimed in unison, Merenon's hands flying to his sword and Astordil's to her bow. Thranduil prepared himself for the storm that he had unleashed.
"What do you mean that someone tried to shoot you? Why didn't you mention this to us first?" Scolded Merenon, the hairs on his body standing on end and his eyes scanning the trees surrounding them.
Astordil shot a dark glare at him and Thranduil almost felt sorry for whoever it was that tried to shoot him. Anyone at the receiving end of that scowl would be wise to run. "You're damn lucky that Galion is not here or he would be dragging you by your ears back to the fortress!"
Astordil whistled lowly and their horses and Thranduil's elk formed a barrier around them with Thranduil- much to his disdain- pushed into the middle. He scowled miserably, he hated it when they treated him like an elfling. However he knew that they were doing their job and that he would do the same for them both.
"To be precise," he said dryly, "they didn't necessarily shoot me. They shot passed me.
"Doesn't mean you're getting out the circle Thranduil." Mereron didn't bother to turn around and flicked Thranduil's sword into his hands.
"Who was this unfortunate soul who tried to kill you?" Asked Astordil.
A long silence followed, broken by the metallic hiss of him drawing his blade, "I think it may have been an elf."
"What do you mean an elf?" Exclaimed Astordil, her ears growing red, "None would dare-"
Thranduil heaved a great sigh, feeling wearier than he had in a century, "There are still some who do not see me fit to be king."
"But this..." Merenon stuttered, unwilling to comprehend what he had been told, "It is no longer the First Age Thranduil. Kin do not turn upon kin. We need to find out who did this and why they want you dead."
"Why they want you dead should not be that difficult to decipher."
They both turned warily to Astordil, who had a wry smirk upon her round face. Thranduil, throughout his long life had successfully irked and infuriated everything and everyone without so much as trying. The list of reasons why anyone would want him dead was in fact endless.
"I sometimes wonder how reckless you must think I am." The king frowned half-heartedly at his grinning companions, "I have been known to be kind and well-behaved, if you must know."
"Really?" Merenon raised a brow as he mounted his horse, "I do recall Celeborn almost starting a war with your father over your foul attitude towards him and his wife."
Thranduil swung up onto Barahon, "He deserved it."
"Right. Before you two carry on," Astordil gave them a meaningful look that broke no room for argument, "Galion must be alerted. Secondly, we need to find Legolas and Renieth now, I'll go get them, their patrol can't be too far from here. Whoever this is may be after them next and they're too exposed here in the forest."
"I'll ride with Thranduil back to the palace." Merenon hopped off his mare and handed the reins to Astordil. "Take Tallagor with you. Legolas and Renieth can ride back on her."
He squeezed her hand, his dark eyes meeting hers. He quelled the rising anxiety in his stomach with a soft, but strained smile. Every time Astordil travelled through the forest he feared that it would be the last time he would see her. "Be safe out there."
"I always am." She squeezed his hand back as he helped her mount her own horse. "Make sure you come back home." Astordil grinned at them both, "Both of you."
Astordil nudged her knees into her horses' sides and shot off through the forest with Tallagor galloping behind her. Both horses synchronised their footfalls so that, to the untrained ear, it sounded like only one horse rode through the woods.
Once her figure had melted into the greyness, Thranduil clicked his tongue twice and Barahon broke into a run, leaving Merenon to cling onto Thranduil for dear life. He had never become accustomed to riding an elk and Thranduil took advantage of that each time he rode with his friend. The king nudged his toe into Barahon's belly, and the elk swerved nauseatingly to the right, Merenon cursed, no doubt now green in the face. Thranduil lurched as his friend nearly suffocated him with how tightly he held him around the waist. Still, that didn't stop him from smirking.
"Merenon?"
"Don't try and act all innocent with me." Grumbled Merenon, he swore that the bulking elk beneath them was out to kill him. He swallowed the bile that rose in his chest, "What did you want to ask?"
"I'm not acting-Nevermind." Thranduil resisted the urge to tease him and wisely so, since Merenon might be the reason he died today. "You and Astor left the council, right? So, who is chairing the meeting?"
"Oh..." Merenon sniffed, turning a concerning shade of green. "Have I ever told you how much I hate this animal of yours?"
"Stop trying to change the topic."
"We left Galion in charge."
Thranduil's stomach flipped and he nudged his knees into Barahon's side, urging the horse to gallop faster. Though Galion was the politest and most diplomatic elf in his kingdom, around the Lords and Ladies of the Council he turned into a fire-breathing ogre. There was a reason why none of his council members liked Galion.
"I suggest we hurry so that you can save what's left of your council. And so that we can get off his accursed beast."
Both Thranduil and Barahon snorted amusedly
The last shouts of battle died away and a heavy silence fell over the clearing. All eyes turned towards the two elves in the centre, one rapidly turning scarlet and the other paling as the drapes of death settled around her.
"No, no, no. You stay with me now!" Exclaimed Legolas as he pressed his hands into the wound to staunch the blood that steadily streamed from it. The girl- the one that had fallen upon him- lay trembling on the ground, the pool of blood seeped into her shirt and her pants and had covered Legolas up to his elbows. Her skin paled quickly and though she was unconscious, Legolas could see the shallowing rise and fall of her chest. Which meant that the poison was already in her blood stream.
With one hand he pressed down on her wound, hoping to quell the bleeding and with the other felt the fluttering of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Legolas swore, it was barely there and time was running out.
"Faelon!" He screamed, not daring to rip his gaze away from the face below him in case he should look away and she should disappear. His clothes were stained, his heart bleeding the same, though he did not know it. He had not seen such a face since she-
A shadow fell over him. "Let me help you."
He jumped at the gruffness of the voice and in his confusion barely registered that it was a dwarf of all people who did not bother to wait for his consent and had a strip of cloth held over her wound. Dark tattoos were etched across his large knuckles in green runes in a language he no longer understood.
"There you are lass. You'll be alright…" Though the words were not meant for him, Legolas took heart and was galvanised into action.
"No! Wait!" His hands flew out and stopped the dwarf before he could tie the wound again. His head flew up and into the dark eyes of the dwarf. More tattoos covered his balding head, a crocked, disfigured nose rested in the centre of his plump face and flared at the nostrils as a scowl crept upon his face.
"What are you doing?" Growled Dwalin, We have to stop the bleeding."
"Hold it against the wound, but do not tie it." The words tumbled awkwardly from his mouth, he looked from the dwarf's hands to the girl's stomach, "Hurry now, the poison is already in her blood. Do you have any wine on you? Or any ale?"
"No, we lost our bags in the forest."
The elf cursed and Dwalin blushed, he had not heard such words since the days of his grandfather. He sighed, running a hand across his forehead and smudging Lostoriel's blood across it, "Faelon! Hurry up!"
Whilst he shouted Dwalin got to work, careful to not press too hard and cause her more pain. The elf tore some cloth away from his own shirt and held it against the wound. He must have thrown as much pressure as he could upon her wound for Lostoriel squirmed under his touch.
"Come on Lostoriel. You can't leave us… not now." The dwarf whispered under his breath, hoping that the elf would not hear him.
He should have known better than to utter her name. Legolas's head shot up, he could not believe what he had heard. His sister was dead. His father believed her alive and the girl lying between them was evidence enough that she truly was alive. And yet, Legolas could not bring himself to believe it. Her face seemed gaunter than he remembered, scars that he had not seen before ran down her cheeks. His blood froze as he caught sight of her cropped hair. No elf willingly shortened their hair, none would do such a thing, not unless they were forced to. Could it be that these dwarves cut it for her? That they insulted her in such a way? And if they did, why was this one trying to save her?
"Faelon where are you?" Exclaimed Legolas as the cloth quickly became soaked in red. He looked up and blanched, for there in the middle of the clearing stood his closest friend being held at bay by a vicious, snarling wolf that stood guard over the dying elf. Beside him, the dwarf cursed loudly with words Legolas had only ever heard from Merenon.
"Legolas?" Came Faelon's unsteady voice. His skin pulled from the tight braid that swayed at his waist, a satchel rested upon his hip beside a small axe. To Dwalin's eyes, he seemed to small in stature to wield it, in fact those scrawny ankles that peeked out from his tights, looked like they would snap in the wind. However, in those narrow shoulders he could see courage and from the manner in which he held himself he recognised the quiet determination of a warrior.
"Don't stare directly at it!" Shouted Legolas.
Faelon, who had already averted his gaze glared at him. He respected Legolas as his prince and his captain. He was Faelon's closest friend, he loved him like a brother. But sometimes Faelon wished he could grab Legolas by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Perhaps, for Legolas's sake, it was better that a wolf stood between them. "Got any more obvious advice?"
A slow guttural rumble resonated through the silence and Sunflower stepped forward menacingly, her hackles raised and her eyes dark, daring Faelon to take another step forward. All around them came the creaking of wood as the elves drew their bows back, ready to shoot. The elves of the Greenwood did not enjoy killing the creatures of the forest, but if attacked and threatened they would kill mercifully. For they were as much a woodland creature as any animal.
"Please don't shoot her!" Shouted Ori, finally finding his voice under the icy gaze of a she-elf, "She means you no harm."
Spittle flew from the wolf's mouth, her paws dug deep into the ground and Faelon knew that he would have to risk his life to save the girl. It was his job to do so. Being a healer came with a cost. He drew himself up, standing tall like a birch tree in winter and spoke softly to the wolf. To the dwarves his voice was like a lullaby. The elven tongue rolled smoothly around his words, soft and entrancing. If the trees could speak, this is what they would sound like.
But no amount of soothing language could sway the wolf for she stepped forward, teeth and motive bared.
From his spot on the floor, Legolas inhaled sharply. All too aware of the fact that Lostoriel…Yes…Lostoriel's life hung in the balance. "Faelon. Do not move!" He shouted and scanned the clearing for the one elf who would be able to tame the wolf. He spotted her besides the dwarves, her hood thrown over her head and her bow gleaming in the dimness. He opened his mouth to shout-
"Sunflower come here! Now!" They all jumped at the sheer volume of his shout. A raven-haired dwarf stepped out of the throng, hands shaking, his heart pounding. The years had aged his etched themselves upon his face and had streaked his hair grey and black.
Sunflower whined softly, taking her eyes off Faelon, and looking pleadingly at the dwarf. He stepped forward; his hands held out in front of him. Why he was trying to save an elf he didn't know. And why he even bothered with the wolf was beyond his comprehension. He never truly liked Sunflower. But they would not be able to help Lostoriel if the healer died. All he wanted to do was get to her and beg her to stay alive. Over Dwalin's shoulder he spotted her pale face and the red halo which pooled around her.
"Come here girl." Thorin held his breath as he slowly sunk to his knees, behind him he heard Fili and Kili scream out to him, asking him to stop. But he ignored them.
"Thorin no! Are you mad?" Balin grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. Thorin yelped as he squeezed his shoulder. For an old dwarf, Balin was surprisingly strong.
A tall shadow enveloped them and they both looked up into the shrouded face of a she-elf. She flicked back her hood, revealing a hard expression upon a round, caramel face. "Let him go. He may yet help her."
Balin's hand fell away and he openly gaped at her. He had heard rumours and legends of a tribe of elves that lived in the mountains in Mirkwood, but never had he come face to face with one in his long life.
Thorin on the other hand was phased by none of this and steadied himself on the ground. He spread his arms wide, and kept his voice calm, "Come here Sunflower, everything is alright girl." He cooed.
Sunflower reluctantly turned away from the healer, and Thorin hastily nodded to where Lostoriel lay. The elf got the message and with a nod of thanks, sprinted over to his patient.
"Come on Sunflower…" Finally, whining softly, Sunflower bounded over to Thorin, her head and tail held low. She butted her head against his chest and twisted round until she sat snugly on top of him. It took everything within him not to topple over, Sunflower did not realise how big and heavy she was. She moaned and whined softly. "It's alright." Thorin petted her thick coat and she took this as a sign to bolt away from him and to Lostoriel's side.
He followed swiftly, knowing that he should have been there for her from the start. If they lost Lostoriel now, then there was little hope for their quest. Though he had first doubted that she would be of any assistance to them at the start of their quest, she provided an invaluable vat of knowledge, and he was sure that it would kill him if he lost her a second time.
"Ren!" Called the healer, "You! Come here!" Who the dark-haired healer called for Thorin did not realise until Dwalin shouted his name and pulled him forward by the arm. He stumbled forward and landed dumbly on his knees. Below him lay Lostoriel and his hands started to shake again. Her brows were knitted into tight knots and a stack of soaked cloth lay near her face. She had lost too much blood.
"What do you need me to do?" he found himself asking whilst the elf called Ren settled at Lostoriel's feet, looking as pale as Lostoriel did.
"Hold her down by the shoulders and do not let go. This is going to burn." Said Faelon as he unstopped the leather waterskin with his teeth and spat the cork out. He sniffed the contents to ensure that it was the disinfecting concoction that Bronaduin was infamous for using. "Everyone ready?"
The she-elf gritted her teeth and Thorin did not miss the confusion and recognition that briefly flashed upon her face. "As we'll ever be 'Lon."
"Right then." Faelon wasted no more time and let the cool liquid fall over her wound, gritting his teeth in preparation for what was to come.
The moment the liquid touched Lostoriel's wound, a violent shiver washed over her body and her eyes flew open followed by a scream that pierced their eardrums. She struggled to shake off the hands holding her down by the shoulders and kicked at whoever held down her feet. But it was no use, whoever held her legs down was too strong for her.
"Lie still, it will be over soon." She nearly fainted again when she heard him speak. Lostoriel's heart pounded as she looked up to see her Legolas- her brother- smiling warmly at her with tears racing down his cheeks.
"Legolas." She whispered and reached out to cusp his cheek. She flashed him a pained smile, but her gaze seemed far away, as if she were dreaming. "Goh..Goheno nin muindor."
"There is nothing to forgive, Lostoriel." Her hand brushed his face and Legolas could not believe that this was truly happening. He still felt the freshness of her loss as if it were yesterday. He had searched and mourned and learnt to live without his little sister. And yet here she was, with her soft presence brushing against his. "I have never been more overjoyed to see anyone in my life."
His cold tears ran down her wrist, and Lostoriel no longer had the strength to hold her arm up any longer. She hissed through gritted teeth as Faelon soothed her wound with a salve that burned worse than dragon-fire. "Are…you… trying to…kill me?"
She asked through bursts of air, glaring at her old friend who she could not believe knelt before her.
He grinned, shaking his head, and Lostoriel felt as if nothing had changed. "Maybe." Faelon unravelled a roll of bandages, "This is going to hurt."
She watched as if in a dream as he spoke to the person holding her shoulders down, "Lift her up a little please."
"Aye." Came his rumbling voice. It was Thorin.
Relief spread across her body. She tried to turn her head to great him and perhaps it was best that she did not see the anguish upon his face.
Someone laughed to her left and she knew it was Dwalin, "About time you got up lass." He caught her eye and winked mischievously.
If they were here, then Bilbo must surely be with them. Having lost him during the skirmish she wanted to see that he was alive and unharmed. "Where is B-"
"Save your strength Lostoriel." Thorin cut her off suspiciously hastily, a note of warning in his voice. "We're all here and alright."
Lostoriel wanted to ask him why he was being so blatantly rude, but her throat closed around her voice and the edges of her vision blurred. If only she could hold on for just a bit longer, if only to listen to the lighter voice who spoke soothingly beside Legolas. Their face came into view. The sunlight caught her ebony hair, surrounding her in a halo of gold and reds that reflected in her eyes. And a smile that she knew from her childhood was the last thing she saw before the darkness took her once again.
"What's happening? Why is she unconscious again?" Asked Thorin, worry dripping off every fibre of his being. His eyes were gaunt with fear, and tears gathered in them like rainclouds.
A dwarf that would shed tears for an elf. Such a thing had not been heard of since the Dark Days and the three elves shared a look between themselves whilst Faelon tied off the bandage. "The poison from the spider has gotten into her blood, we don't have much time left. We must get her to Bronaduion now."
"Right." Renieth dusted her hands on her cloak and rose, ignoring the dwarves who stared at her with unbridled curiosity.
Thorin and Dwalin could not help staring. For the elf that stood over them was unlike any they had seen before. She strode with the confidence and authority of royalty, tresses of the night sky were twisted in intricate braids that fell down her back, skin almost the colour of the rich earth.
"…Tauriel and Rhaweth can lead the dwarves back to the fortress." Thorin barely registered what Reneith was saying as the blonde elf gently cradled Lostoriel to his chest and stood with a grunt. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched her eyes loll backwards and her breathing falter for just a moment. That was all it took for his chest to tighten and the bottom of his heart to fall. Beside him, Dwalin mumbled a prayer and clasped his shoulder tightly.
"She will be alright Thorin."
Silence rang through the clearing whilst Legolas and Faelon prepared to leave. Muffled, hurried hoof-falls carried through the air, growing louder as they drew near, all clearing rang with the creaking of bows being drawn and all the elves vaulted to the sound. Cries of shock rose from the elves near the trees as they parted way for a rider atop a grey stallion that burst into the clearing, followed by a chestnut mare.
The elf's dark hair streamed behind her, along with her long, silver robes as she dismounted and in one stride was already bowing before the prince, taking a short moment to catch her breath. "Legolas hir-nin" she then bowed to the strange elf behind him, "Renieth brethil."
Renieth came rushing forward, followed by another captain with hair of fire. "What has happened Astordil?"
Astordil inhaled sharply, wearily studying the bedraggled troop of Dwarves who were still surrounded by several warriors. The tranquil mask she wore turned sour and a foul scowl graced her sharp features. "There has been an attempt on the King's life."
Muffled gasps and exclamations rose from elves and dwarves alike. All except this harbinger of ill news seemed stunned.
"What has happened?" Asked the red head.
"We're not entirely sure Tauriel. There is an assassin within these woods." She turned to the You and Legolas need to return to the palace immediately. There is no time for delay." She clicked her tongue and the mare plodded to her side, "You and Legolas may ride on Merenon's horse. We have little time-"
As if seeing a ghost, she fell pale at the sight of Lostoriel in the arms of Legolas. She reached out tentatively, like reaching out to touch smoke, she feared that if she touched the ghost in his arms that it may disappear. "By the Valar…" She whispered, "how can this be?"
"There is no time for explanations now Astordil." Said Renieth, "The King, is he?"
Legolas stepped forward, worry etched across his brows, "My father? Is he alright? Is he hurt? Where is he?"
"He is fine. Merenon rides with him to the stronghold as we speak. You shall hear the tale from him once we're back in the palace. Let's go. Tauriel and Rhaweth can lead your troops back to the stronghold." Astordil mounted her horse, "I can carry her back."
Like transferring a child from one set of arms to the next, Legolas took the utmost care to ensure that he did not jostle Lostoriel as he set her in Astordil's careful grasp. The wind rushed in and he gasped as the blood upon his shirt turned cold. "Be careful with her Astor."
"I will Legolas. Never doubt that."
"What must we do with the Dwarves?" Asked Tauriel, drawing Astordil away from Legolas's grey face and the weight that had settled upon the prince.
"Arrest them." Renieth glared murderously at Thorin and swung up onto the horse, "We must not overlook any possibilities. Faelon, take the troop and follow behind us. Cover our tracks."
Legolas leapt up behind her, briefly grasping Faelon's forearm before the warrior nodded solemnly and disappeared into the trees, followed by several of their companions. The clearing erupted into chaos. The elves descended upon the dwarves like carrion to the dead and the dwarves grumbled and cursed as they were shoved, stripped off their weaponry and had their hands forcibly bound behind their backs. The Elves of Mirkwood had proved Beorn correct. They truly were wilder and more dangerous than any elf in Rivendell.
Astordil glared at them, satisfied that they were captured, and fearing for what their presence in her forest might bring. There was more than a fair chance that the dwarves had travelled this far East to assassinate Thranduil. For the river of hatred ran deep on both sides. If she were in their position, perhaps she too would seek revenge, but not in this way. And as she rode away, tendrils of ice froze her heart when she noticed arrows, too large for a dwarf to use and fletched with bright, yellow feathers lying where a thick pool of blood had gathered.
Lostoriel moaned painfully as the horse leapt over a fallen tree and jolted the elf on the saddle. Astordil snapped out of her stupor and pushed Lostoriel up against her, feeling as if she were in a dream as the girl who she had seen grow and die rested upon her.
Astordil grimaced and shifted as a wave of dread spread through her. She thought back to the arrows that she had seen lying where Lostoriel had undeniably lain, to the pool of blood and the beautiful bow she had spotted lying disregarded.
Though she did not want to believe it, a part of her knew that the king's failed assassin- his daughter-lay unconscious in her arms.
"I'll distract them, you push that stick-like one over the side." Hissed Dwalin to Gloin from where he stumbled beside what he thought was a hairless cat of an elf. The elven guard pocked him with the butt of his bow and scowled viciously.
"I'd have you half drowned before you could even try naugrim. So, shut up!" His hair whipped Dwalin across the face as he shoved him forward, causing Ori, who was forced to walk right at the front of the group, to stumble and knock into Fili. Dwalin growled, his hands balled tightly in fists that he was furiously prepared to swing at the elf and hopefully knock a few teeth from his mouth. From the front of the group, led by the elf named Tauriel, Thorin fiercely shook his head, giving Dwalin a meaningful stare. Shut your mouth and we will survive.
He passed into the palace, scowling at every elf he saw, striding with his shoulders rolled back, for he refused to cower before-what he called- the pesky pixies.
Though all this, in part, was a façade and he knew it. All the dwarves knew it. Their elf was gone. Their hobbit disappeared. Sunflower had been muzzled and dragged off into the depths of the forest.
And they were captured and taken as prisoners into the most impenetrable dungeons this far west of Erebor. Lostoriel had warned them of this possibility and now neither she nor Bilbo were here to save them from their terrible predicament. None of them knew where Bilbo was, nor how he had disappeared. One moment he had been dropping them through the trees like unwanted potatoes and the next they heard screaming, as if he were falling and then nothing. It filed them all with dread to know that their burglar, their Bilbo, was alone in the unkind forest at the mercy of the foul beasts that prowled the forest floor. And it crushed them to know that they could do nothing. That they had to leave him to his own devices whilst they negotiated for their freedom and hoped that Bilbo and Lostoriel would make it out alive. Wherever they were.
The palace was one massive cave that stretched on as far as the eye could see. There seemed to be no top, nor a visible bottom. Light, pure, sunlight poured in from all directions, bouncing off the waterfalls and shallow streams that crawled their way through the heights and depths of the kingdom. Pillars hewn from the red stone held up the invisible ceiling with that were carved in the likeness of the trees, staircases wound and twisted their way under and over archways of dizzying heights. Tendrils of flowers fought their way onto the patterned walls, which were flanked with tapestries and murals of the forest and of their warriors, each one telling a different story. The fortress was enormous, and yet it brought comfort to all who entered it. It was almost as if the forest had moved into the fortress and hardened itself to living stone.
The guard frowned at Dwalin, scrunching his nose as if the dwarf stank like a bog. But he paid the guard no heed, his mind was set on ensuring that Thorin didn't get them all executed and fretting over whether Lostoriel was still alive or not. Though they had stemmed the bleeding from her wound, the unthinkable could have transpired between her being saved and them reaching the palace alive. She could be dead. Lying cold on a slab, or still bleeding out. Dwalin did not know which he wanted to believe.
The elf, as much as it pained him to admit, had become something of a friend to him, he would even go so far as to say that Lostoriel had become kin. At least for him. Balin was all he had. His brother had been married, a long time ago, but his wife had died before they could bear any children. And Dwalin, well, he had sworn love and alliance to his sword and kingdom, and none other. Though he had a deep hatred for the Elves, she had begun to chip away at his prejudices. Lostoriel had shown them that the elves were not all the same. Now he saw the stubborn, kind elf as a niece of sorts, maybe even a younger sister. And the idea of her dying and him not being able to save her weighed him down like the weight of Erebor resting on his shoulders.
The dwarves were led along several causeways beside waterfalls, and bridges that overlooked heights that did not intimidate them, for underground the dwarves were as surefooted as blind moles. Though they were being taken further into the heart of the kingdom it did not occur to any of them to put an end to their grumbling and complaining. They were exhausted, emotionally wrought and by now starving, which meant that the brashness of their voices compensated for the emptiness in their bellies.
They came to a halt on the steps below the grand throne of the elven king, who stood on the wide dais, surrounded by several guards and in deep, hushed conversation with two other elves. Judging from the soft intensity and rapidness of their speech he gathered that something was desperately wrong. The tall, lean one who stood facing the dwarves sent an icy shiver down Thorin's back. His face was scarred with the reminders of passed battle wounds, there was something disconcerting with the way those dark eyes followed him, as if he could see right through the dwarf and read his every thought. Thorin recognised his stance. He was a warrior, an ancient one from the tales that Thorin had been told as a child. This one he knew that he could not cross.
The mousey- haired elf on the other hand reminded him of Balin in a foul mood. He was no warrior, instead of armour, long grey robes adorned him. He raised his voice and was instantly hushed by the others; his name was Galion and he seemed to be extremely irritated with his three companions. He jabbed a finger at the king and spat out a string of furious Elvish.
Thorin could barely believe what he had just seen. No one, besides maybe a dwarf, would dare to speak to the famed ElvenKing in such a manner. If they did, then they were either arrogant or stupid, for Thranduil's fiery temper was renowned across the continent.
Finally, Galion spun on his heel and stormed off, muttering angrily beneath his breath. And two pairs of eyes turned to scrutinise their newest visitors. The king turned to the warrior, uttered a dismissal and the elf marched away and quickly disappeared into the depths of the kingdom.
The red head who led the dwarves waited patiently as Thranduil glided up the staircase and gracefully rested upon his throne. His crimson cloak flowed over the wooden chair and behind him rested beautifully carved antlers that stretched out like wings. Upon his platinum hair sat a crown of twigs and berries, for autumn had come upon his realm.
Thorin did not bother to bow his head in deference. He and Thranduil used to be civil around one another. After their last encounter he had to be escorted from the halls by several guards in order to keep the benevolent king away from him. For Thorin had brought news of Lostoriel's death and Thranduil, even after a hundred years, had not forgotten nor had he forgiven him. One look at the hard, ancient face of the king told him that. There upon his throne he seemed frozen in time.
000
"I will ask you again," The Elven King, biting down an exasperated sigh, sunk deeper into his throne, "what business have you passing through my woods? Why is it that you have travelled so close to my lands?"
Dwalin, who stood closest to the Thorin grumbled miserably about lopping King Thranduil's head off. He was sure that Dwalin had eagerly remembered that the elves could hear every word he muttered, and it took everything within Thorin to not elbow him in the gut.
The conversation had begun civilly enough. The ElvenKing had welcomed them into his halls, though welcome was an understatement. Thranduil was suspicious of their purpose, he had first greeted them as his friends, although none of their bonds had been cut. Food and lodgings had not been so readily offered as it had been in Rivendell and for once they were all happy about it. For Thorin had never forgotten the abandonment of the elves, and Thranduil had never forgiven him for Lostoriel's death.
Thorin Oakenshield turned an annoyed smile in the direction of the king, "Like I told you, we were starving. We had been searching for food and drink and solace from the creatures that plague your forsaken woods."
"Please, your Majesty," pleaded the dwarf who was no doubt an elder amongst his companions with his wrinkled skin and white hair. He stepped behind Thorin and held both his hands before the king, "We speak the truth. We lost our luggage in the forest when the spider's attacked us, and even before then our stores had been running low. We meant no harm to any of your people. And now all we ask is for safe passage through your kingdom."
"And again, I will ask you. What purpose have you travelling through my realm?"
No answer came, save for several pairs of eyes that pointedly turned away from him.
Thranduil had sighed and gritted his teeth. He had spent the last few hours riding through the forest like a madman over a figment of his weary mind, had escaped from an assassin and now had to deal with stubborn, irrational dwarves who refused to divulge any information to him of their purpose in his lands. He had more important issues to deal with than this.
Now that he thought about it, Thranduil knew that he could not release them from his custody. Not whilst someone was out to kill him and his family.
The Elven King studied them once more. They all varied in age, two had hair of silver and another was barely an adult. They were covered in spiderwebs, dirt stained their clothing, and he had no doubt that there was some truth to their story- that they had not eaten in a number of days and were left helpless by the spiders. As much as the world painted him as one, Thranduil was not a cruel ruler.
"I do not wish to keep you within my halls as much as you do not wish to tarry here." He rose from his throne, seeming impassive and frigid as the winter. "However, there is an assassin within this forest and until we know who they are and what purpose they have behind their actions- I am afraid that you must remain here in our custody."
"Tauriel, Rhaweth," He now addressed the two guards, dutifully ignoring the disgruntled, furious shouts and insults from the dwarves. He raised a brow as a particularly colourful insult reached his ears, "Take them to the dungeons. And ensure that they are sufficiently fed and sheltered from the autumn cold."
Thranduil then glared at Thorin and pointed a long finger in his direction, "Leave him."
000
Thorin had never desired so much to throw Thranduil off the platform than at the start of their conversation. He was not shocked that Thranduil had so easily saw through his fickle insults and the partial lies that they had spun in answer to the king's endless barrage of questions. Much to Thorin's disdain, the king guessed their true purpose within a minute, though Thorin was sure that he knew their true purpose the moment Thranduil had seen his face.
All he desired was to leave the dreaded kingdom. Firstly, he needed to ensure that Lostoriel was alive, then they somehow needed to find Bilbo who was out there, in the dangerous woods, alone and then they needed to find a way out of here. He had sworn to protect his friends. And now they were either locked away, dying, or lost. He had failed them. And he was in the process of failing his people, one word at a time.
Now alone with the king, years of pent-up hate and resentment ploughed their way to the surface. Thranduil casually paced around the round dais, seemingly unconcerned about Thorin, and only about what he could extract from the dwarf.
"There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems of pure starlight. I offer you my help." The ElvenKing bowed almost haughtily, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he lowered his head. In respect or mockery Thorin did not know.
He did know of which gems Thranduil spoke. The necklace of Eryn Galen had been mined in the halls of his ancestors nearly two thousand years ago and had been bought by the Elvenking as a gift for his wife. The stones had been discovered in the depths of the mountain, below the catacombs. They were no bigger than the tip of his little finger, and even when unrefined and unpolished they shone with all the brightness of every star in the night sky. According to the legend, the ElvenKing had offered to pay handsomely for the gems that he dubbed to be the eyes of the heavens, and many centuries later the Dwarves had refused to gift him an heirloom of his house.
Thorin had expected some sort of liaison of gold or gems from the mountain in exchange for their safe passage, though he had expected something more grandiose than this. Rage boiled in his blood and Thorin had to swallow his pride and anger, knowing that selling a part of his birth-right was the only option they had to see the sunlight again.
The dwarf smirked as he inclined his head towards the towering elf. "I am listening."
He took in Thranduil's once black boots as the king took a circuit of the grand platform before his throne, they were caked in a thick layer of mud and grass, clearly the ElvenKing had been out prancing about in his forest. Now that he noticed the mud, he also saw several burs that stuck to his pants and his heart sunk, could it be that-
"I will let you go, if you but return what is mine."
Thranduil's silken voice nabbed him from his speculations. The ElvenKing raised both brows in surprise. And Thorin hated that smug smile that he wore with pride. As if he knew that what he offered was unequivocally obvious and enriching for them both. Thranduil would eventually receive his bounty and Thorin would rule rightfully as King Under the Mountain upon the throne of his forefathers.
The offer tempting, so tempting that Thorin considered striking a bargain with the elf. He smirked, slightly unbelieving that Thranduil attempted to reason with him.
"A favour for a favour."
The Elven King nodded solemnly, yet the sly smirk did not leave his face, "You have my word. One king to another."
One king to another. If Thorin had ever heard a snake speak it was now. Had Thranduil seen the fire in his eyes, then perhaps he would reconsider his initial offer. The Elves of Mirkwood had nothing that they could offer and nothing that Thorin would accept as fair payment in turn for their safe passage. No offer of safety or treasure could serve as retribution for the inaction of the Elves. Of the cold-hearted abandonment of the ElvenKing. If it had not been for him, then his father and brother and people would still be alive. His people would have a home. Yes, the offer was tempting, but Thorin was not an idiot.
"I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honour his word should the end of all days be upon us!" Thorin shouted from the dais, hearing the satisfying ring of his voice travelling through the depths of the kingdom so that each elf may hear of the atrocities of the ElvenKing. Fury laced his voice and fire bubbled within his breast, like a volcano preparing to explode.
"You lack all honour!" Thorin spun round and jabbed a finger at Thranduil, who recoiled the moment Thorin began shouting. Outraged and shocked that anyone besides Galion would dare to do so before him. "I've seen how you treat your friends, how you treat your own kin."
Thorin marched to the centre of the dais, rage fuelling him, radiating so strongly off him that Thranduil could feel it buzzing in the air.
"We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help, but you turned your back. You turned a blind eye to the suffering of your own daughter. You drove her away, do you not remember?" Thorin's throat squeezed his voice, a thick lump sat on his voice and he had to inhale deeply and push it down, lest he wept before Thranduil. The moment passed and rage washed over him once more. With every word it bubbled within him, reaching for the surface, making his hands shake uncontrollably and allowed grief and resentment to run amok.
"Whilst she fought for her life…Whilst she fought for our lives, you abanadoned her to death by flame! You turned away from her suffering! From the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!"
His nostrils flared like billowing rain clouds as his voice boomed across the open cavern for all to hear. He felt no shame, nor any regret as his fury spilled over.
"Imrid amrad ursul!"
Thranduil leapt before him and jutted his face inches away from Thorin's. The dwarf did not cringe as Thranduil's warm breath settled on his nose, not even when he was enveloped by dread and fear, nor when, in his mind, he saw a ginormous dragon, black as the night and terrible as the worst of the summer storms descend in a ball of fire.
"Do not talk to me of dragon fire! I know its wrath and ruin." Hissed Thranduil. And like that night around the campfire with Lostoriel, Thranduil's skin rippled and then peeled back. Revealing dark, burned tendons, muscle, and bone, some of which had still not healed and ran red with blood. His left eye turned milky white, revealing a blindness that Thranduil's magic hid well. Even his ear had been scarred beyond recognition. Thorin's heart sunk, fear pricked at his bones and he knew that Thranduil had no idea just how much he and his daughter's true forms looked alike.
As Thranduil spoke, Thorin was faced with the horror of having to watch as the tendons and muscles of Thranduil's jaw and cheek rippled with every word. His voice reverberated with a subtle pained tone that Thorin had heard many times from Lostoriel when her wounds flared and burned. He had no doubt that Thranduil was experiencing the same pain now.
"I have faced the great serpents of the north. I know its wrath and ruin. If it were not for you and your weak-willed grandfather, then perhaps my daughter would be alive! If it were not for you then she would not have burned in dragon fire!
He drew away like a snake recoiling after it bit its victim and his skin wrapped over his wounds, "Your kingdom was beyond hope. I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen. Just as Lostoriel would not listen to me about you and your kind. I did not-"
Abandon her. Thranduil spun around and marched gracefully up the stairs. Once he reached the top as he stood and glared at the lowly dwarf below him, completely indifferent to Thorin.
"You are just like him. Foolish. Hopeless." Thranduil threw himself upon his throne, his robes falling around him like rain. Upon his throne of wood and berry both terror and grandeur settled upon his shoulders. With a soft wave of the hand two guards grabbed Thorin and marched him backwards from the dais, kicking and growling the entire time.
"Stay here if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait!"
She awoke to deep throbbing around her stomach, stinging on the surface and pinching down her muscles with every breath. She struggled to open her eyes; a lofty weight pinned her down like someone had thrown the heaviest of winter blankets over her body that she struggled to kick off. Lostoriel tried to move her hands to ease the pain and found with a yelp of surprise as her head snapped up that she was tied to a chair.
Her eyes flew open. The heavy drapes of sleep forgotten as Lostoriel struggled against the fabric around her wrists. The thick loops burned her skin and her back and bottom ached, now stiff from being tied to the rigid wooden chair. Lostoriel attempted to move her legs, but it was of no use for they too were tied tightly to the legs of the chair.
She gasped through gritted teeth as the sharpness rush of pins and needles erupted from her ankles. Her throat burned like the desert sand and the nearby trickling of water from the darkness taunted her. Judging from the echo of trickling waterflow, Lostoriel knew that she was deep underground.
She groaned in pain as she pushed herself up by the elbows to rip the fabric away from the wood. It was futile. The fabric would not budge. Her entire torso screamed in pain and she was left panting like a sick dog. Beyond the rush of blood in her ears, the calm hush of distant waterfalls reverberated through the stone. The dim light burned into her eyes and the small room came into focus. To her left there was nothing, except endless darkness that stretched deep into the earth. Before her stood a pale wall of iron stone and to her right, she could just make out the fringes of a staircase.
Again, Lostoriel struggled against her bonds. She cursed as it burned into her already sensitive skin, the burning tingled down the back of her hand and under her fingernails, as if she clawed at bedsheets with blunt nails.
Her mind raced with questions as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Where was she? Where were the dwarves? Where was Bilbo? Had he made it out alive? Was he still out there, alone and at the mercy of the woods? Had they all survived?
She didn't remember much from before she collapsed. Lostoriel recalled being slashed by the spider, she remembered Dwalin pulling her towards safety and then seeing her brother-
"I would not struggle if I were you." A deep voice resonated through the dimness. The hair across her body stood on end as the too calm voice spoke from the dark. "Those bonds are Elven made, the more you move the tighter they will become."
"Who are you? Where…am I?" Her voice caught itself in the back of her throat and she coughed violently when the air rasped against her dry throat. With every cough came a flash of blinding pain and Lostoriel struggled not to gasp like a dying bird each time.
The hiss of metal upon leather rang through the cavern and the light bounced off the long blade that her interrogator held between them. She watched as the blade slashed through the air and as he ran his hand along the sharp side.
"A beautiful blade is it not?" He asked almost gleefully. He examined the ruins upon the blade, his face serene. Almost non-plussed about her current situation. "This is of Noldorian make. Forged in the fires of Imladris. Light, but powerful, balanced perfectly. A pity that it's stolen is it not?"
Lostoriel leaned forward, glaring with all her might at him, "It was given to me... As a gift."
"A gift you say?" she could hear his eyebrow arching under the slyness of his voice.
"We stole nothing." Lostoriel resisted the overpowering urge to tell him off for the implications of his words. She was rash and impulsive, but she was no thief. Glorfindel, who now seemed a world away, had gifted her that sword as a parting gift between friends. "That too was given to me. You can ask Mithrandir himself."
Without warning her capture whipped through the air and she jumped back, the chair teetering on two legs before settling as a pale face thrusted itself inches away from hers. Dark eyes catlike eyes glowed in the dark. His warm breath wafted against her skin. The pale light outlined his crooked nose that spoke of years of fighting and highlighted the sharp, jagged lines that stretched from his ear to his neck. His ebony hair fell like dusk around him and Lostoriel was taken back to her childhood, to the harrowing tales of monsters and ghouls that lurked in the hollows of the palace. Lostoriel glared at the ellon before her.
Fear bubbled in the back of her mind, but she was no longer an elfling fleeing down the passageway with a lantern grasped firmly in trembling hands. Her cheek twitched as her flesh burned beneath her skin. And inhaled sharply, not daring to move as the cold, sharpness of a blade pressed against her throat.
"I mean you," she rasped, her throat burning. "I mean… You no harm. Lay do…down your weap…on and we can-"
"I will not be taking orders from you. Traitor." He spat the word as if it were poison upon his lips. Those hard eyes bore into her skull like a tiger as it leaned on its prey. "Not when you have held your sword to our Ernil and Aran."
The sword pressed closer to her throat and his warm breath touched her face. Lostoriel grimaced and attempted to pull away from him. Her heart raced and she knew that he could hear it pound against her bones. She had not meant to let it go this far.
"Do not attempt to feign innocence for we have found your cloak that you hid behind like a coward when you shot at our king." The blade slid away from her throat and he slowly circled the chair; she could feel his eyes burn into her skull. "Did you aim to miss? Or are you just a poor shot?" He swooped down so that he was mere centimetres away from her cheek, "Surely someone of your skill should have killed him? Or is this part of your plan with those naugrim?"
The ellon sheathed his blade and raised a thick brow at her. Those eyes were filled with nothing but fury whilst Lostoriel glared at him. Her mind raced as she tried to scratch away the words from the back of her throat and force them into her mouth. She knew his voice. From a time long passed and it resonated with the chiming of golden bells in her memory. If only she could recall his name, then perhaps she could negotiate a way out of her predicament.
"I did not intend on killing either of them. And I am no traitor. Please you must believe me!" she pleaded with him through gritted teeth. That was at least, half the truth. She had not meant to kill anyone, much less her family. Those arrows were meant to distract her father, to ward him away from the Dwarves and allow them time to escape.
"The dwarves were merely my travelling companions. They meant no harm to anyone. They are gentle folk. Foul-mouthed, stinking, and temperamental. But they are no killers." Lostoriel was not going to sell them out, nor was she going to get them killed by her own kin. She had to convince this soldier of their innocence, even if it meant her being imprisoned for all eternity. "All we wanted to do was cross through the forest unnoticed and unharmed. We did not mean to put anyone in danger, even though we walked into it ourselves."
Perhaps there had been a choice when Legolas and his troop had surrounded them. She could have negotiated with them, she should have attempted to get them to lower their weapons, but he had an arrow ready to split Thorin's head open and they had been surrounded by at least fifty elves. Lostoriel knew that she was dying, so naturally the less diplomatic strategy had to be used. Perhaps it had not been the wisest of ideas.
The elf hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating the effectiveness of his next move. "Why should I take your word? Why does a lone elleth travel with a wolf and thirteen dwarves who see it fit to trample into our lands, disturb our woods and keep you as their on-hand assassin?" He fiddled with something in his hands as he spoke.
"They are travelling to the Iron Hills and I to this forest. They thought it best that I lead them through."
"What reason do I have to believe you?"
"None other than the fact that I speak the truth."
The object caught the light in a flash of gold and landed with a light hiss as it collapsed on his palms. He gathered it around his fingers and held it up to the light, staring at it indifferently, as if he could simply chuck it away and it would have no consequence on him.
"Recognise this?"
As the object caught the light Lostoriel inhaled too sharply and too quickly. She instantly regretted her action.
There, dangling in the dark was her grandmother's necklace and beside the beautiful leaf, hung a ring. Amber licked at its sides, crawling up them like fire and dying out as her interrogator flung it into his hand and then thrusted it in her face.
"How about now?" He asked again.
The faded, silver ring sat in his scarred palm. It was Elrohir's ring. The one that she had not taken off since they left Imladris. The one she swore she would never lose. And now it sat in the hands of her captor. Lostoriel felt rather than saw the smirk upon his face and tried to school her features. But it was too late.
His fingers closed around the ring as he withdrew his hand and he slunk into the shadows of the room. The smirk died upon his face and the elf grimaced. He did not want to do this.
"So, you do know what this is and who it belongs to." He snorted mirthlessly, and Lostoriel resisted the urge to break the chair, break his nose and take back Elrohir's ring. It was all she had of him, all that she would carry. "Tell me, was it given to you? For what riches did you persuade the son of Elrond to give up his own?"
The elf, having no sense of personal space, jutted his face near hers again. This time his eyes hard as stone. Her voice fell away as she cocked her head to the side and withheld a gasp as the hardness in his green eyes slipped away, revealing a softness for a brief moment before it faded away into fire.
"Like I said before. I have stolen nothing." Anger boiled within her. How dare he accuse her of such trickery? Lostoriel struggled to control her temper. She wanted to scream, to plead with him to believe her. Yet her words failed her, and Lostoriel found herself studying his familiar face once again. She knew those green eyes, she knew that crooked nose and the long, lightening like scar that travelled down his neck and the thin black leaves that wove around it.
"Spare us the trouble of lying and tell us the truth!" A second, husky voice split the silence. Lostoriel whipped around to find the source of the voice. All she found was darkness. However, she could hear the hiss of their clothing as they shuffled.
The ellon coughed and stamped his boot on the ground impatiently, his free hand rested on the hilt of his dagger and Lostoriel knew that he would not hesitate to use it. Though judging by the hesitance in his voice, perhaps not. "Speak now or I will have no choice but to throw you in the dungeons or to the wolves. Which do you prefer?"
Lostoriel forced the words out through her constricting throat, "I did not steal it. It was given to me as a gift." She cocked her head to the side. How dare he think that she would do such a thing? "If you choose not to believe me then perhaps you should consider writing to Elrohir Elrondion inquiring why he gave a traitor the ring he safe-guarded with his life for centuries. You should write to Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel herself if you think me a traitor! You know as well as I that they would have me in irons by now, Merenon!"
Her voice rang out into a blanket of silence. Her interrogator- Merenon- paled like the moon and gawked at her, blinking rapidly as if clearing his eyes after staring at the sun for too long. The ring clattered to the ground, the sound knocking none of them from the stupor they found themselves in.
"What did you say?" He whispered, all pretenses of malice and ice had melted away and Lostoriel spotted tears running down his cheeks.
Lostoriel swallowed the thick lump in her throat. It had been so obvious that she wanted to kick herself for not recognising him sooner. A century was enough time for a human to forget the face of one they loved, but not so for an elf. Before her stood her Merenon. One of the many Eldar who had raised her and trained her into the warrior that she was. Her father's sworn brother, her mother's closest friend. Her Adatôr. How had she been so clueless?
"Merenon?" Whispered Lostoriel and her voice echoed like thunder rolling across the sky. Tears welled in her eyes as she studied the familiar face in front of her. "Merenon? What- Is it truly you?" She tried to reach out to him and hissed as the fabric held her back. "Adatôr, I'd recognize your voice anywhere."
"Tithen pen." Said Merenon, his is hand already reaching out towards her as if he needed reassurance that he had not just been interrogating a ghost. He had spent years scouring the outskirts of the Mountain searching for her. He had travelled to the borders of foreign lands, seen the great sea, and had still came away with nothing. And yet, Lostoriel- their Lostoriel- sat crying in front of him.
His rough voice came away strained, "How is this possible?"
Before she could speak, another, louder, heavier set of footsteps approached the chair and she heard scuffling and muffled whispers in the darkness.
"Merenon."
Lostoriel nearly fainted at the sound of the harsh whisper. There was only one elleth in the entirely of Aman who would dare to take that tone with Merenon and Lostoriel had never been happier to hear her. She grinned into the darkness, sniffing whilst she wiped at her cheeks with her shoulder.
"Astordil?"
"...Step aside if you cannot do this." said Astordil, one of the most revered and feared warriors of her father's army and one of his closest friends. Her harsh voice barely came across as a whisper, but Lostoriel heard it all. "Whether she actually is Lostoriel or not we still have to question her. She held a knife to Laiqalassë's neck and shot at our king. Either she is a kinslayer or just an idiot."
The latter of her scolding rose higher in volume, enough so that Lostoriel felt as if she had been slapped. She had used the translation of her brother's name from the old language, each member of the royal household had a code name that they were addressed as in the presence of strangers. They served aliases for when they travelled. Again, Lostoriel tried to pull apart her bonds, felt them budge and then tighten like fire around her wrists.
"And yet she did not kill them"
"That's not the point and you know it. I understand that you want to let her go, to believe the words from her mouth, trust me Merenon there is nothing more that I too desire. But she tried to kill them both."
Silence followed and Lostoriel 's stomach dropped. If she was imprisoned herself, then what would become of the Company?
It tore at Lostoriel to even think of such a possibility. Her thoughts turned back to the Company, had she condemned them to death? Had her rash, foolish actions subjected them to a life spent rotting behind bars?
The firelight silhouetted the towering elleth, her daggers gleamed from her belt and though her stern glare sent shivers down Lostoriel's spine, she did not mind. For her wonderful Astordil, the fiercest warrior in the army, her aunt, almost mother-like figure, was here. Lostoriel gulped down a sob, all she wanted to do was embrace her. To embrace them both. They were her family. They were all she had and-
"Though I do not want to believe it, avof nathlad 'werth min daur vîn." Astordil spat out her words like they were poison on her lips. Something flashed amber in the dark, momentarily blinding Lostoriel as the fire in a small sconce roared to life, revealing intimidating figures silhouetted by its cold light.
Lostoriel, it felt as if someone had ripped her wound open with a blunt knife. We refuse to welcome traitors into our forest.
A traitor. They saw her as a traitor. This was not meant to have happened. No. She hadn't wanted to shoot at her father, she hadn't meant to hold her sword up to Legolas's neck and threaten him with death. But Lostoriel knew that she had done all this. And unfortunately, had survived to tell the tale. She did not think her actions through and now she would surely pay for her irrationality.
The elves did not take lightly to such actions. The crime of kin-slaying was the first code embedded into the laws of all three Elven realms, it was one of the first oaths that each warrior had to take. And though she had not intended to kill anyone she had still shot at her father- the king.
She swallowed the dryness in her throat and bit back the tears that she knew would fall. For here she was. Tied to a chair, unsure of what had become of her companions and being interrogated by the two people who had once loved her.
"I am no traitor." She managed to force out the words, though she did not believe them.
Lostoriel looked from Merenon's stunned, tear-stained face to Astordil's mask of stone. If she felt any compassion, Lostoriel knew it would be hidden behind her steely eyes. "Please you must believe me, I have no reason to want the life of the king or Legolas. Please!"
Astordil was having none of it. She reached for her dagger first, but instead balled her hands into fists and huffed frustratedly. She did not want to do this, but she knew that she had to.
"For what reason should be believe you?" She reached over her shoulder and thrusted the yellow-fletched arrows in Lostoriel's face. "These are yours. Whilst your dwarven companions were being attacked by spiders, no doubt drawing in our forces, you shot at our king. Not once, but thrice. If you truly are the princess, then you would do no such thing. You swore fealty to the crown, fealty to your people! How dare you so blatantly disregard your word?"
Astordil's nostrils flared indignantly, her chest rose and fell heavily as she caught her breath. Finally, she whispered, "You know better."
And Lostoriel wanted to run. Merenon interrogating her was one thing. He would not so hastily resort to such hurtful measures. However, under Astordil's viper-like scowl, Lostoriel knew that she stood no chance against such a formidable force.
Footsteps clattered down the staircase, followed by the distinct flapping of long robes as one of the elves swiftly paced towards them.
The firelight blinded Lostoriel from seeing much else as they approached. Only five blurred silhouettes against the amber, the swishing of robes grew closer as did the heavy boot-covered steps.
Lostoriel gasped as if she had been hit on the head. Like a summer storm rolling in from the mountains he swept into the room. Thunder boomed with each of his steps and already his mind pushed against hers and she had no to power to stop him.
Without warning blonde flashed in front if her, along with the hissing in metal and the cold air that blew the blade down to press hard against her throat.
"I have already spoken with your companion and know of their quest to reclaim their forsaken homeland. So, I will make this easy for you. Did you or did you not mean to kill me? Answer swiftly elfling or I'll have you strung up by your fingertips until the sun swallows the earth!"
The cold, unmistakeable voice offered no solace. Only spikes of ice and fury.
The blade pressed closer into her throat , where just moments before Merenon's blade had rested. Tiny droplets of blood trickled through the thin cracks in her skin.
"I have already jailed your half-wit companions. You are alone and injured with no chance of leaving here without our assistance. We have the power to help you. So, I suggest you start talking. Now!"
Translations: Gweston- I promise
Goheno nin- Forgive me
Hir-nin- My Lord
Brethil - Princess
Ernil- Prince. Ernil nin- my prince
Aran- King
naugrim- a derogitary name used by many of the Elves for the Dwarves.
Adatôr- "Uncle," from my father's side. Basically what one would call their father's brother.
Ellon- Male Elf. Elleth- Female Elf
Laiqalassë- This is the translation of Legolas's name in Quenya. In the original lore, Tolkien used it as a name for an early warrior named Laiqalasse, who was a reknowned archer as well. I'm not gonna explain the entire story here, because it's kinda long, but there's a lot of info on him on the wiki pages.
Avof nathlad 'werth min daur vîn- We do not welcome traitors into our woods.
I am so incredibly sorry that this chapter came like two months after the last update. I did not mean for this to happen, but life got seriously crazy and I needed to focus on studying and working for a while. Thank you everyone for being so patient. Things are beginning to quieten down now, and I'm going to try and update by the end of next week.
Thank you to Lancealot2point0 for beta reading this chapter as I wrote it! I really do appreciate it!
And thank you, all my wonderful readers for reading this chapter. I hope that you're all alright and staying safe!
hope that the cliffhanger wasn't too much, but I had so much fun writing it!
Thank you for all your reviews and the follows and favourites! Can't wait to hear from you all!
Until next time, stay safe!