Hello. Here's a chapter for y'all. So I underestimated how busy I would be, but whatever. Anyways, I guess my plans for this plot have been so detailed that I got bored with it. So I dumped out my plans (to an extent) and am going with the flow from now on.

If you have any questions, leave it in the review, or PM me. I appreciate your support, you guys. I'll try to respond back to all of your reviews from the last chapter.

But hey, the Battle. This is it. This is the end. Unless they make the Children of Hurin, which I kind of wish Chris Tolkien would sell the copyrights to. But then he would have to give the Silmarillion, too, and I don't really want that to happen. Oh man, oh man. Did you see Thranduil in the new Empire cover? Tsk, how fine.

Disclaimer: I am merely a humble pupil under the tutelage of Professor Tolkien's legacy. That is, I own none of his canonical work.

"The tale is one known to all those who resided in King Thingol's Halls, but it is a sad one. It is of a mortal man with the burden of the world upon his shoulders."

Thranduil paused, and the silent question stood of whether his companion would like to hear of this tale. However, when she remained silent, his crystal gaze lifted from where he half-heartedly read the contents of the yellowing parchment. The look he gave her was questioning upon realizing that her unwavering gaze was trained onto him.

He set the parchment aside on the vacant seat beside him and offered her a slight smile, questioning and utterly sincere.

"What is it?" Thranduil asked, his cerulean eyes softening.

The mortal woman paused. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, regarding him in a histrionically contemplative fashion. The King had the desire to laugh.

Finally, she said, "Your speech." Here, Areth paused again, resting her hand right under her chin before saying, "It is different from your kin. I have never heard anything quite like it."

The slight smile on his lips stretched wider.

"Yes, I suppose I retained the old speech of that distant age."

The sky was a foreboding gloom, and the sun hid behind the great clouds. All travelers knew that such tells portended to a great storm. Humidity was heavy in the air in the East, and there was a growing coldness as the hidden orb in the sky was close to the point of descending. And still, travelers, dark and hooded, rode unwaveringly towards their destination.

Their path was desolate of enemies and other travelers. Though the way Thorongil decided for them to take was straightforward and far safer than any other, it was not the road most commonly used. Still, Areth was wary. Though her caution was unwavering, the fact that it was absolutely silent made it seem even more dangerous in her narrowed eyes. Unlike Cirion, who seemed completely at ease with his gentle humming, Areth was undeniably anxious.

Hidden by her hood, Areth's teeth clenched when Cirion did not stop his quiet singing, and her grip on the horse's mane visibly tightened. The horse made a slight noise of discontent upon the pain and, realizing the discomfort she caused the animal, the woman instantly let go and stroked his hair in repentance. The irritation increased when he only got louder, but she refrained herself from snapping at her friend. It was not Cirion's fault that she was in a wretched mood.

Instead, Areth merely bowed her head and gently patted the horse's side, and she fell short a few paces behind Cirion. So lost was she in her mind, in her wariness, in her worries, that she failed to notice the fact that she was being carefully watched.

Since their departure from the Halls of King Thranduil, Thorongil had kept an eye on his friend, for her obvious shift in mood was hardly lost to him. Perhaps Cirion, who was not so well-versed in the subtleties of emotions, was quite oblivious, but the absent-mindedness that was very unusual for someone like Areth was not hard to miss. The ranger had thought that it would be a passing thing, but after eight days of travelling, it was clearly not so.

In truth, he worried for her. He had seen her in Mirkwood—seen her in the Halls. Seen her with the King-

"Something has been plaguing you," Thorongil said quietly. He glanced sideways at his companion, and the slight clenching of her gloved fist on her steed's mane only confirmed what he already knew. When she did not respond, he said, "I thought that your time spent in the Halls served you well." Here, Thorongil paused. "You were happy."

However…

Thorongil did not have to say it. The implication was evident. Despite the weight on her mind, Areth could not help but feel the faint tug of wry amusement pull at the edge of her lips. Her friend's observation was astute as ever. Through his deep yet soft-edged lilt, accented gently by his time with the Grey Elves, Areth could feel his concern. He did not ask, he did not pry, but he left a window for her should she want to talk.

Areth felt a wave of gratitude wash her from his sincerity. However, the burden was hers alone. The matters were trivial compared to the conflict with Fengel King. After all, what is a dull pang of her heart compared to an ongoing war within a kingdom? In her mind, she had no right to feel such discontent—not when she was the one spared from a dark fate.

Although she remained silent, from the opening of her hood, Thorongil saw a slight smile. The shadow hid the insincerity of the gesture, but Thorongil knew enough than to press the matter. Areth kept her business close to her heart, and her absolute confidence was reserved only for a few people. He knew that while the woman held him in high esteem, he was not part of this list.

In truth, the weight on her shoulders was of all the heavy stones collected from everything that was happening. From regret to anger to constant anxiety to sadness—it was all present. The conflict that severed the harmony of her friendship with Thranduil only served as a reminder of what could not be. While that golden-haired Elf shadowed her thoughts more than she would have liked, Areth could not afford to make it her priority.

Areth shook her head slightly—a barely perceivable gesture.

It mattered little. It mattered not.

Her hand unclenched from the horse's long hair, and her palm gently rested on her breast, right over the fragile petals hidden inside her robe.

A reminder of what could not be.

Her green eyes darkened, but she moved forward.

For the first time in many, many centuries, he did not feel like drinking.

Thranduil's half-lidded gaze, intense and unwavering, regarded the crystal cup in his hand with unhidden distaste. The glass was still filled to the brim, the dark liquid still and unmoving. The sweetness of the flavor, which had always been pleasing to him, was oddly unappetizing, unsatisfying. Its essence, its very scent of sickly sweetness, was offensive.

It was an oddity, a deviant. But Thranduil simply did not feel like drinking at the moment. He placed the cup on the side of the crystal wine bottles with barely a sound. And, for a moment, the King merely stood and stared at it. His gaze, blue and impassionate, was, for a mere moment, lost in a trance.

"You are always drinking wine when in my company."

He heard the light voice filled with quiet mirth echo in his mind. But it was not real. It did not manage to lighten his mood any, unlike the previous counts of when he had truly heard the unmistakable lilt. Such reminiscence only seemed to take his mind further in the shadows.

"Not today, I'm afraid," the King spoke softly. His voice barely echoed around the space of his study, but the quiet tinge of forlornness could not be mistaken.

He would feel a light touch, a simple brush of fingertips, trail over his shoulders, and then she would say in that accented lilt that was unique only to her, "Something weighs on your mind."

Thranduil scoffed silently and turned his head away, as if she were really there. Of course something weighed heavily on his mind. She weighed heavily on his mind. Like a constant presence, a lingering shadow, she stood at every corner of his thoughts. And whenever he would see those damned eyes, viridescent and accusing, heaviness would settle on his chest.

The King shook his head slightly, closing his eyes before exhaling a great sigh. He thought that they were past such misunderstandings. However, he could not claim absolute innocence, either. After all, he played no part in helping her see beyond whatever lies Melhros fed her. And now, it seemed as if he would never have the chance to.

Undoubtedly, while Melhros' scheme was only to drive her away to stop the intermittent attacks of enemies who had no dealings with them, he had also managed to paint an unkind image of his King in her mind. Having known his counselor for centuries, it was not hard to imagine what sort of poisonous words he had said to drive Areth away. Something along the lines of her presence compromising the safety of his kingdom.

Or, perhaps, accusing his King of befriending her for the wrong reasons.

Thranduil clenched his fist against the base of the crystal glass. He suddenly had an urge to throttle that meddling fool.

However, while Melhros' words played a part in their rift, it could not be denied that, in the end, Areth still did not trust him. The mortal trusted only a few, and who was he compared to those selected few whom she most likely have known for numbers of years? She told him nothing, and he did not press her. The sad reality was that while Thranduil grew to regard her in the highest esteem, it was clear that she did not see him in the same light.

"My Lord!"

Thranduil ran his hand though his long, golden hair, and, taking a deep breath, the mask of Greenwood the Great's Elven King swiftly set into place. The shadowed face of a world-weary Elf vanished, only to be replaced by the cool, unmovable façade of a wise ruler. And then, he turned to face his guards.

"Legolas, Ernil," he acknowledged calmly, and his half-lidded eyes, crystal and unfaltering, shifted from his son to Melhros' nephew. King Thranduil regarded their dirtied attire, and it was evident that they only just returned from their duty beyond the gate. He could practically smell the woods from them.

"My Lord," said Ernil with humble respect, bowing promptly.

While Legolas remained silent, his head inclined slightly, his golden hair spilling with his subtle movement. His countenance, aware and utterly solemn, left the King with the impression that much was needed to be said. And so, when his son brought his gaze from the ground, a silent understanding transpired between the Elves, and Legolas began speaking.

"The Men of the Southern Lands have yet to leave the Forest," he said curtly, a subtle edge of anger seeping into his words, "and continue to trespass our territory."

Thranduil's eyes were quick to narrow, the grip of his pale hands tightening against each other. His mind worked at a great pace, puzzling pieces, strategies, together with great celerity. At this point, the course of action would depend entirely on the situation. With Areth gone-

"What remains to be their incentive?" Thranduil uttered in not but a quiet whisper.

It was evident that he was addressing neither of the Elves before him. They remained silent.

If Melhros were correct in his assumption, then the enemies would have surely been gone with Areth's departure. After all, these men had nothing to gain by creating enemies with an Elvish kingdom other than unnecessary deaths.

In a louder voice filled with strength and authority, King Thranduil said, "And are these Men attacking our guards?"

"No, my Lord," said Ernil. Unlike his prince, Ernil's voice was quieter, and he felt none of the anger that was so poorly hidden behind Legolas' façade. Instead, he felt worry. When the mortal was under the Elven King's protection, the Wild Men were much easier to read. However, now that she no longer resided in the Halls, the enemy's motive suddenly became questionable.

What exactly were they after?

The same thoughts lingered in the King's mind. Uncertainty did not sit well with him. Whenever he found himself unknowing, he was quick to seek answers. This situation would be no different.

"Do not engage with them unprovoked in any way," Thranduil said finally. His eyes closed for a brief moment, and when they opened, his crystal gaze, glazed and star-like, seemed to linger in a faraway place. "Keep them away from our borders. That remains to be your task."

The dismissal in his tone was evident, and Ernil was quick to acquiesce. His head bowed lowly before he turned away. However, Legolas hesitated for a brief moment. His eyes lingered on his father, feeling rather unsatisfied with his decision. Though he was not dubious of his King's intentions, too long had they sat there, waiting for the enemies to attack. Should they not instead pursue them this time, as they had done before?

Legolas' eyes were trained on his father, but no amount of staring would allow Thranduil's mind to be any clearer to those any other but himself. He meant to voice his thoughts aloud, but then stopped. Perhaps it was the hard glaze in his father's cerulean eyes that made him pause—one that silently but clearly spoke of finality— but he was then reminded of why it was his father held the respect of his people. Though he had inherited the crown, he held far more than a mere title.

Though Legolas did not quite understand his plan, he trusted his father to do whatever he thought would keep their home safe.

And so, with a final bow towards his liege, he turned and paced back towards his companion, who was waiting for him by the mouth of the study's entrance.

They would return once more to the borders, just as they were bid to do.

Thranduil had barely acknowledged their leave.

Though company had left, his mind continued to race. These men, these pests, have long since outstayed their welcome. From the start, their goal had been to capture, perhaps kill, Areth. The Elven King scoffed slightly at that—as if he would have allowed such a thing to happen under his watch. But still, they had not left. Their numbers, according to the captain of the guard, was not reduced. The chances that their leader had changed direct orders were slim, as their continued presence in Mirkwood was due only to the stay of one person.

The fact that these men were still in the Forest meant that they were unaware of Areth's departure.

Thranduil's fingers, pale and bare of his silver rings, gently grazed his bottom lip. He suddenly realized the he was smiling. It was an odd thing, this smile. It was not driven by any sense of present happiness, but a remnant of regret. It was hollow and bitter.

If this was the only thing he could do for that woman, for that mortal who had somehow wormed her way into his affections, then so be it.

His eyes closed, and for a moment, he imagined her in a place far away from where he stood. A forest, perhaps was where she hid—a forest that was not his.

He would maintain this charade with these bothersome insects, if only to keep her safe, even if only for a bit longer.

King Thranduil's eyes opened, and he left the empty study.

His drink remained untouched.

Areth was silent for a minute as her viridescent eyes trailed over the inked parchment. Celduin. The Running River. The direct path would lead the travelers directly to their desired destination. However, as easy as it may be, the woman was not quite in agreement with her companion's proposition of following such an open route.

"Following Celduin will give us clarity of our path, I grant you that," said Areth slowly, her eyes lifting from the map to meet Cirion's weary gaze, "But you seem to forget that we are not permitted the luxury of freedom."

"I fear that there are no other alternatives regarding the routes towards Dorwinion," he said, his voice weighed with exhaustion. The past few days had not been kind. "We must make our way with swiftness."

"Swiftness means nothing if it compromises our safety."

"I know you are right, but our options are limited. This land is not covered by forests to shroud us from plain sight."

Areth sighed. Resting her elbow on her knee, she brought her bare hand from the worn parchment to her face, hiding away the subtle bruises beneath her shadowed eyes. Rest did not come easily at such a time.

She then said, "Perhaps it would not be the best to decide our course from here on. After all, you are as unfamiliar with these parts as I."

"Yes," Cirion said, giving a short laugh, "We are people of the South."

"Thorongil would be more knowledgeable regarding these matters. We will wait for his return."

Cirion gave a short nod, but then remained silent. Turning away from his companion, he looked beyond the forest trees towards the open horizon, giving him a clear view of the night. The sky was littered with faraway stars. So beautiful—such a contradiction of the senseless quarrels happening in the lands that they oversaw.

"Is it safe to ask why Gildhel finds it necessary to see me with such urgency?"

With thoughts interrupted by the voice of the woman, Cirion spared her a brief glance from the side of his vision. His grey eyes wandered from her face, illuminated by the orange light of the fire, to the odd, slightly shimmering object in her gloveless hands. Gold…?

"The location of our people has been compromised. You are the Keeper, our messenger," said Cirion lowly, turning his face then towards the horizon, "It should not be hard to understand that it is only you he trust to deliver their message of warning."

"That is unwise," said Areth, a small frown tugging at the side of her mouth. "At this time, it would compromise us even more. If it is true that Fengel knows of my position as the Keeper, then he will keep a watchful eye. I cannot move without his knowing."

"Thengel is reluctant to trust any other with your duty, Areth."

"I do not want to repeat the deaths of Ceadda and his… men," she uttered quietly. Her voice, strong but silent, suddenly faltered. "You cannot ask me to bear such a burden."

Cirion did not turn, but allowed himself a sigh, before closing his eyes in a silent manner of resignation.

"Areth, there will always be casualties," he said, his lilt as quiet as hers had been, "If you believe yourself to be the cause for every one of them, then you will be buried beneath the weight of your own conscience. Do not allow such a dangerous emotion as guilt to meddle with your mind."

The woman swallowed, but did not reply. Cirion did not understand. It was not the fact that there were deaths. It was the fact that these deaths—Ceadda and his men—they were deaths that she perhaps may have prevented. It was the fact that she chose to stay within the comforts, the safety, of Mirkwood's Halls that brought Areth to carry the weight of her comrades.

Turning his head towards his companion, Cirion sighed again.

Against the light of the fire, he could see the worry evident by the slight furrow of her brow. He wished to sooth it, but he knew that at this point, words would make little difference. Areth's mind was her own, and he could do little to help.

Walking towards where the woman sat, Cirion lowered himself slightly to place a gentle hand, roughed by years of hardship, over her shoulder. She stiffened for a mere moment before accepting his gesture of comfort.

Lowering his head beside her ear, he spoke words that were for her to hear alone.

"Keep looking forward, my friend."

Do not let your gaze waver.

"How unfair it is that my father would judge my heart so harshly while he so freely gives his to that Edain."

"Give his heart freely?"

Legolas' lip twitched slightly. Even to his ears, those were not words best fit to describe the situation. He then remedied, "Well, perhaps not give his heart… But it cannot be denied that his friendship with the mortal has taken a great priority as of late."

"And you are against this?"

"Perhaps not," he said with honesty, "But I do not understand."

Morhir's lips turned upwards in a slight smile. It was such a rarity nowadays to see Prince Legolas seek his company in his own accord. Ever since the year arrived that marked his transition to adulthood, Legolas had taken to learning through his own experiences rather than through the wisdom of his elders.

"Not many can claim to fully understand your father, Prince," said Morhir calmly. As always, his lilt held an edge of dryness. "Those that can have either chosen to follow the path of the Calaquendi and sail to the West or have fallen long ago."

"Even to his son, King Thranduil remains to be a mystery."

Though he dressed his features well, Morhir could plainly see that this fact bothered Legolas tremendously. Of course Thranduil would not be the type of father to coddle his child with affection, but while the love reserved only for Legolas was evident, it was silent and distant. It reminded Morhir of the late King Oropher and his son. But then, the old counselor conceded, Thranduil knew nothing else.

"Perhaps he is a bit enigmatic, but hardly that complicated to predict. For all his intricacies, Thranduil is nothing if not predictable," Morhir said with a quiet laugh.

"Perhaps to you," Legolas granted.

"Perhaps to me," he agreed. Eying the prince—so like his father in appearance— from the corner of his vision, he said, "Though I doubt that you are here for mere chatter. What is on your mind?"

The counselor was never one for small-talk, Legolas knew.

"I would like to ask you about the affairs concerning Rohan."

Pausing mid-stride, Morhir regarded Legolas for a moment. There was no outward change in his expression, but he found himself taken slightly aback. He then said with deliberation, "You must already know that I am not the most knowledgeable about the conflicts beyond Mirkwood."

Morhir's voice trailed, leaving an open suggestion towards the young Prince. Legolas evidently caught his meaning. He was silently suggesting talking to his brother, the counselor Melhros. Indeed, it was no secret that he was the Elf most interested in the affairs beyond Mirkwood.

"Yes, of course," he said with a bit of hesitation.

Morhir's eyes narrowed, but not out of anger or irritation.

"Yes, I understand. My brother, however versed in the language of learning, is not the most skilled in creating relationships. It comes to no surprise that you do not find comfort in his presence."

That was, of course, true. No matter how cold and standoffish Morhir seemed, his words and intentions were sincere. His brother, however, was a cunning Elf—an academic being who cared little for social necessities, and made little effort to hide his disinterest in such things.

"Very well," said Morhir with ease, "I will tell you all that I know, though I do not know how well I can sate your curiosity."

The Elf's limited knowledge, however, were mere words repeated from what came from Melhros' mouth. However unkind Melhros was towards society, he always made an effort to remain present in Morhir's life.

"Fengel King holds the throne of Rohan at the present," he said. He recalled the many recounts of the King's cruelty from Melhros, but decided against speaking of it. Such were lengthy tales. "The hate that many bear for the current king is no secret and so, a separation within the people is present in their lands. One side upholds the laws of their king while another roots for the power to be given to his son, Prince Thengel."

Legolas was unfamiliar with the falling of Men. Being of the race of the wise and immortal, such a thing as corruption was known and yet unknown to him, and though there were many of the Eldar whose light succumbed to darkness, the Prince was far too young to recall the Dark Ones of the earlier ages.

Though he understood that Fengel King was not most suited to be the people's king, he did not understand why he would disregard his people so. After all, was it not the King's duty to live and breathe for the sake of his subject's needs?

Pausing from his lingering stride, Morhir stopped, only to turn towards the younger Elf. He then said again, "I'm afraid that my knowledge is limited regarding the matter."

But this was enough for Legolas.

However offhanded Morhir was with his recount, Legolas understood that the conflict was at a much bigger scale. The division within the lands was one that could not be mended by mere words alone. From what Ernil had already told him, it was plain to see that Lady Areth was on the side of the revolution.

"What part does Lady Areth play in this?"

The counselor's eyes lingered on the Prince's face. He should have known that the Elf's curiosity would be due to the mortal.

"It comes to no surprise that this is the reason for your inquiry," Morhir said finally. He paused, before resuming his stride about the corridor. "But I doubt that even King Thranduil himself can tell you the answer. All I can say is that she must play a valuable piece in the game to be hunted so ruthlessly by these savages."

Thanks for reading, you guys. I appreciate the support. Truly, I do. Don't hesitate to leave a message if you have any questions. Or want to say hi. (: