Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: For this chapter, I borrow characters from Tolkien, but I give them back far too quickly for this story to be considered a crossover. I don't follow LotR canon at all.

Chapter 5

Bacchante did not speak to Prince Nuada Silverlance again for the better part of ten weeks. She saw him early the morning he left for the mountains; he was standing with his warriors, dressed in full war regalia. He did not see her then, watching him from the gallery outside her chambers and she was glad of it, for as he spoke to the battalion General and presided over his legion, the Prince showed no sign of compassion but rather a ruthlessness that frightened Bacchante, and made her shudder deeply.

The first month of Prince Nuada's absence passed without incident; Bacchante spent her time in his city, gradually acquainting herself with its many shops and pavilions. She inquired once to the owner of a teashop if the people of Bethmora missed their Monarch's leadership,

"The city of Bethmora has existed for five thousand years... it hasn't changed. There's little for his Majesty to do within its walls…" the shop-owner sighed heavily, with bitter resignation, "These times call for a warrior-king."

"Why has Prince Silverlance not yet been crowned King?"

"Custom dictates that the Prince must be wed before there can be a coronation." She shrugged, resting her forearms on her shop counter, "It is of little consequence; he is the King of Bethmora in all but name."

The siren left the woman's store with a melancholy heart. From what the shop-owner said, Bacchante saw that Nuada Silverlance's absences were long and frequent; glancing out over the beauty of his underground city, the lady could not help but feel a certain emptiness in the Prince's cavern-kingdom.

On the fifth week after Prince Nuada left for war in the mountains, refugees arrived. Bacchante saw them as they were brought into the city, covered with filth and weary from travel, escorted by perhaps fifteen of Nuada's soldiers.

"What are they?" the siren asked, descending from the palace foyer to a large pavilion below where the refugees were gathering.

"Halflings," an Elvish nurse answered her, carrying a pitcher of water for them.

"Hobbits?" Bacchante had read about the creatures, once common to the English countryside, but she had never seen one. Now there were twenty-five of them at least, perhaps more, resting on the pavilion's concrete benches. Some had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion while others gazed at the magnificent city in awe, and bitter disbelief. Few conversed softly and wearily amongst themselves, grateful for the nurses' doting.

"Sir, forgive me," Bacchante began, approaching one of Nuada's warriors who had come with the Halflings, "is Prince Silverlance not among you? I did not see him enter the city."

"His Majesty remained in the mountains to fight the last of the mercenaries, my lady. I do not know when he or the remainder of General Erised's battalion will return." Bacchante let the soldier leave. A part of her suspected that the Prince would do as much; he would not return, she knew, until he had slaughtered every last enemy - and some day, he would likely die trying to accomplish it.

"Pardon me, Ma'am," a voice stirred behind the lady, pulling her from her grim reverie, "do you know how I could get a letter out? I'm trying to find someone, you see. It's very important." Bacchante turned, finding a Hobbit standing behind her.

"What is your name?"

"Samwise Gamgee, Ma'am. But if you could please tell me where to find the postmaster-"

"You see the underground river that runs through the city? There's a small estuary that's used as a port; the postmaster's office is there. He can send your message down the river, to any of the Netherworld cities connected to it." The lady paused a moment before she spoke again, "Whom is it you see so fervently?"

"My wife, Rosie." The Halfling bit his lip, "She and the children got away when the men came and burned the Shire – it's the second time it's been burned, you know. The rest of us who tried to defend it were taken prisoner."

"How long ago was this?"

"I don't rightly know; they took us to the mountains and across the sea, so it's hard to tell seasons. It was Spring when they destroyed Hobbiton." Bacchante let her eyes fall from his. Though Bethmora knew no seasons, there were calendar-clocks throughout the Palace; it was almost February.

"Mister Gamgee, you are… probably very tired, and in need of rest. Surely, any letter could just as easily be sent tomorrow-"

He cut her off before she could finish, "No! I have to send it now – don't you see? It's my wife; if she's out there, she has to know that I'm alive…"

Bacchante shook her head in confusion, "But you've been parted so long; surely one more day wouldn't make a difference-"

"You don't understand! One day makes all the difference in the world!" He clenched his fists, shaking with frustration and bitter anger, "Haven't you ever loved anybody at all?!" The siren let him finish, and said nothing as he brushed his way through the refugees, out of sight.

"Frodo, do you think they'll let us stay here?" asked Peregrin Took three weeks later, trailing after his friend while trying to devour a slice of lemon cake quite without chewing. The four of them, Frodo Baggins, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took and Samwise Gamgee had wandered up to the Palace foyer courtyard; from where Bacchante was standing on the gallery outside her room, she overheard their conversation…

"Not indefinitely, Pippin – the innkeeper said she'd put us up for a month, and that was all."

"But couldn't we work? Earn our own money, maybe buy a house?" Frodo Baggins laughed in mirth,

"Doing what?" It was Merry who answered,

"Well, we're good at growing things. I'm sure if we asked the Prince, he'd give us fields or," the Hobbit glanced up at the city's cavern walls suspiciously, "whatever the Elves have instead of fields." Sam Gamgee spat on the ground,

"Prince Nuada Silverlance won't give us nothin'," Bacchante, who had been half-listening to them, turned to the Halflings in earnest at the comment, "he's got a heart of stone – a crueller man than he never lived." The siren took a step toward the Hobbits, her brow furrowed in aggravated concern,

"You speak quite definitively of a man you've never met," she stated at once, addressing the Hobbit Samwise Gamgee.

"I don't need to meet him to know what he is – what he's done's plenty enough for that," Sam scowled in answer.

"What he's done?!" Bacchante scoffed haughtily, "Prince Silverlance has done nothing to you, except to save you from the mercenaries-"

"Save us? We wouldn't need savin' if it weren't for him and his war. This is his fault – all of it."

The siren shook her head, "It was men who destroyed your home!"

"Men that never would've even come lookin' for the Shire were it not for him," Sam sneered, his words heavy with bitterness.

"You… you don't understand," Bacchante countered, almost desperately, "the Prince himself went to save you; he, he heard that you were being held prisoner, and even though he didn't know you, he took it upon himself to rescue you."

"Really then? If that's true, where's your prince now?"

The lady breathed an exasperated sigh, "He's… he hasn't returned – he's still fighting the men who kept you prisoner."

Sam scoffed loudly, "You see? You see, how much this war consumes him? It's the mark of a bad leader and a hollow king to let himself be ruled by bloodlust."

"No! No, you don't understand at all!" When Bacchante spoke again, her voice was weak with frustration, and she quivered trying to hold back her tears, "It's you who doesn't see! You don't know how much he suffers, how much he agonizes over creatures like you, who could sooner stab him in the back than…"

"Maybe he should suffer," it was Sam's turn to shake with rage, "he should suffer, for all the pain and misery he's caused others. It's all good and well of you to defend him like that – you live here, in this beautiful place." He spat the word beautiful, like a piece of putrid fruit, "But when the humans find it, and they will, and when they burn it so's no one would even ever know it was, your prince'll find himself in some real trouble – see if anyone's as compassionate as you then."

High in the Rocky Mountains, Winter chill still hung in the frosted air, bitter cold reigning even when most of the world gave way to Spring. On a snow-covered outcrop overlooking his battalion, Prince Silverlance stood alone, the icy air whipping through his long, blonde hair; it would be a long, long time before Spring ever came here…

Suddenly, two shots echoed through the stillness of the Winter morning, loud, sudden and clear.

"Get down!" General Erised shouted to his command, the Elven warriors immediately falling to the snow at their captain's warning. So there are more, Prince Silverlance thought, dropping to the snow-bank. He was surprised the mercenaries fired at them; while guns were easy to come by, ammunition was not – surely, the remaining men would not have fired if they didn't have a good shot – that, or if they knew they would not last the day.

High above the Elves, hidden partially behind the mountainside, Nuada Silverlance caught the sight of movement – some black form dodging between the rocks. Quickly, his eyes met those of Commander Adrastos – one of the battalion armed with a bow. The Prince's old friend nodded curtly to his Lord; he cocked an arrow, pulled back and fired at the target. A sharp whistle of fletching through air, a stifled moan of pain, and a mercenary fell from the mountainside, dead before his body hit the snow.

In a wave, without warning, mercenaries – perhaps twenty of them shot up from the rocks behind Erised's battalion. Most armed with swords and some with guns, they descended on the legion.

Death came on swift wings to the men who fought the Elves and their Prince that Winter morning, the crisp, white snow stained pink with human blood. Nuada fought them viciously; the humans quickly recognized him as their leader and attacked with all the more fervour. One of the human soldiers crouched behind a rock and shot at him from a distance; Prince Nuada flicked his attention at the sound of the safety clicking off on the mortal's weapon – before the shot struck him, the Ancient Prince wielded his spear, and deflected the bullet aside. At once, another mercenary struck from behind, aiming to kill Bethmora's Prince with a sword through his back. Nuada turned, but before he could stop the man's blade with his own, the soldier's stroke fell, tearing a long, deep gash across the Prince's chest. Teeth clenched to the pain, Prince Silverlance thrust his spear into the man's heart, striking him dead.

In a momentary lull, Nuada felt his own blood fall from the wound, dripping onto the snow to mingle with that of the men he'd already slain…

"Your Majesty–" the Prince's musing was interrupted by the worried voice of Commander Adrastos, his friend and subordinate's gaze transfixed on the still bleeding gash.

"Adrastos!" Nuada called, seeing the sniper's scope fixed on the Commander's back. Before the Commander could turn, the mercenary sniper fired. Prince Silverlance clasped the Commander's shirt in his fist and pulled him to the snow, and the bullet meant for Adrastos sailed into the side of General Erised. No sooner had the Elven warriors realized what had happened than one of them cocked an arrow and shot the sniper dead – but not before their captain died on the mountainside, his spirit gone and body turned to marble.

Prince Silverlance and Erised's legion fought the mercenaries with all the more tenacity and cruelty at the fall of their General, slaughtering the humans quickly, in cold-blood massacre. Once the last of the enemy had been struck down and lay either dead or dying in the morning snow, Nuada Silverlance walked between them, stopping only once he'd found one that remained alive and able to speak. With practiced ease, the Ancient Prince twisted his weapon in the air above the mercenary, bringing it down so the spear's tip drew a thin line of blood across the soldier's neck. He was young, Nuada noticed as he looked at the mercenary – no more than a boy.

"Are there more of you?" The Prince's voice was harsh, and colder than the Winter air. The boy opened his eyes to his tormentor, narrowing them defiantly at the sight of the Elf, whom he'd been taught to hate. "Speak!" the Ancient Royal commanded, "Or I shall teach you the meaning of suffering."

"None," the boy answered weakly, coughing up blood as he replied, "You – may have killed us," he continued, almost wearily, "but… you can't kill all of humanity." The young mercenary fought to keep his eyes open, heavy from pain, "You'll never win." As soon as he finished, Prince Nuada brought his spear down across the boy's neck in earnest, cleaving his head from his body in a single, clean stroke.

"We're going home," the Ancient Prince announced to the battalion, his voice resonating in the Winter air that was still once more.

"My Prince," one of the warriors spoke, glancing briefly at the marble corpse of his captain, "what of General Erised?" Nuada Silverlance narrowed his eyes in cold determination,

"Leave him. We have wounded as it is – expenditures cannot be made for the dead." At their Lord's bidding the Elven soldiers left the battlefield, those trained in medicine addressing the injuries sustained by their own.

For a time, Prince Silverlance stood back from the massacre, watching as his legion prepared for the trek home. Silently, Commander Adrastos approached the Prince; before Nuada could stop him, Adrastos put his hand on the Prince's wounded shoulder and pressed down, drawing attention to the injury. Silverlance glared at the Commander and winced in response; Adrastos answered with a bitter, satisfied scoff,

"You should find a medic."

Prince Nuada smirked wryly at his comrade, "I will survive without aid. Some of the men below will not."

Adrastos cast his friend and Monarch a snide glance, "Your pride is quite astounding, my liege."

Nuada laughed aloud, "Indeed."

"This is our last day here," Frodo Baggins said to the siren Bacchante, approaching her as she stood on the Palace gallery. He had not spoken to her since she argued with Sam – a week had passed since then. "I thought I'd say goodbye, before I left."

"I certainly didn't think you would, after what I said to your friend."

"It isn't your fault." He paused a moment and looked at her, standing at the balustrade, her white fingers gently resting on the stone. "I see you standing here every day, waiting – you're waiting for him, aren't you? For Prince Silverlance to return." Bacchante looked down at the small hobbit, her eyes tired with a sort of pain. She said nothing. "You love him, don't you?"

"That's ridiculous." Her reply was light, as if her tone itself could dismiss Frodo's argument.

"But it's obvious you do – if not from how you stand here waiting for him, than how you defended him in front of Sam. You're in love with him – you're in love with the Prince of Bethmora."

"I've spoken with Prince Silverlance three times since I've met him."

"Sam said he fell in love with Rosie Cotton the first time he laid eyes on her." Frodo laughed, "Besides, who are you trying to convince, me, or yourself?"

"I don't think it's fair to compare the Prince and myself to your friend and this… Rosie."

"Why not?" Frodo said this with a light-hearted scoff, but behind it Bacchante felt and undercurrent of something like indignation; she didn't have to be told that Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee were fierce friends.

"Your friend was never a Prince – I'm sure he never had to face anything like…"She trailed off, and for a long while, Frodo and Bacchante stood in silence, looking out over the Elvish Prince's city.

"You would stand by him, wouldn't you? If what Sam said every happened, and his people turned on him, and he wasn't the king of anything, you would still be loyal to him."

"He saved my life."

"Your loyalty to him runs deeper than that... I hope for your sake Prince Silverlance isn't as bad as everyone seems to say he is." Frodo Baggins stopped for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, "Goodbye, my lady."

After the Hobbits left the city of the Elves, the Siren wondered if what Samwise Gamgee had said in anger was valid - not only his threat that Nuada Silverlance would fall from grace, but that he truly was a cruel and heartless man. Bacchante nearly cried, for if what the Hobbit said was true - if her golden prince had a heart of lead, she would gladly be the swallow that stays through the Winter of his demise, and dies at his feet.

Author's Note: If you don't get the last line, you must read Oscar Wilde's The Happy Prince. It's short, tragic, and amazing.