I fought like someone on death's door, such that the guards actually threatened to kill one of the dwarves if I continued. I refrained from breaking his neck, barely, but it still took three men to drag me along. They led us to the town square, where most of the town had gathered with torches. It had begun to snow; white flakes drifted from the sky and alighted on hair, beards, and cloth, shining like diamonds in the firelight. The Master stood outside his home, dressed in luxurious robes that were incredibly out of place and looked quite ridiculous on him.

The Master, a large man with rouge upon his cheeks and a few long, dyed strands of flyaway hair brushed over his otherwise bald head, looked furious. He stepped forward, trying his robe shut. "What is the meaning of this?"

The captain of the guard stepped forward, gesturing to us. "We caught 'em stealing weapons, Sire."

The Master looked down his nose at us, and I glared at him, snarling. He and the guard who had threatened the lives of the company; they were fortunate that my hands were bound. "Ah! Enemies of the state, eh?"

"A desperate bunch of mercenaries, if ever there was, Sire," Alfrid said, sneering at me. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but before he could speak, Dwalin interrupted.

"Hold your tongue!" Dwalin wrenched free of the guards holding him, glaring up at the Master and stepping closer to him. "You do not know to whom you speak. This is no common criminal!" Dwalin turned, looking at all the people gathered in the square. "This is Thorin. Son of Thráin, son of Thrór!"

Thorin stepped out of the crowd to stand next to Dwalin. "We are the dwarves of Erebor. We have come to reclaim our homeland." The people began to murmur amongst themselves, staring in disbelief at the company. "I remember this town in the great days of old," Thorin continued, lost in a reverie. "Fleets of boats lay at harbor, filled with silks and fine gems. This was no forsaken town on a lake. This was the center of all trade in the north!" He turned to face the people gathered around us, spreading wide his arms and speaking with such conviction that I myself felt elation building in my own chest, joining the terror there. I suddenly noticed an ache in my side, and I shifted, confused. "I would see those days return. I would relight the great forges of the dwarves and send wealth and riches flowing once more from the halls of Erebor!"

The crowd began to cheer, and suddenly a chill swept through me as a stabbing pain from a wound long forgotten hit me like a battering ram. I collapsed to my knees, the guards no longer holding me up. A thought entered my mind: "Gold sickness." I knew that the instant Thorin entered the mountain, he would be overwhelmed and consumed by it.

Now, though, I was concerned by something else. The Morgul wound in my side ached. It was the anniversary of the wound. At least, the day after tomorrow was. 'Durin's Day', I realized grimly. 'How unfortunately appropriate.'

As Gloin and Ori pulled me to my feet, Bard burst into the center of the crowd, eyes wild. "Death! That is what you'll bring upon us." He pushed through the last few people barring his way until he stood before us all, facing Thorin. He strode forward until they were feet from each other, still speaking loudly. "Dragonfire and ruin. If you awaken that beast, it will destroy us all."

Thorin spoke over Bard, his voice awakening the dreams of every soul here who had forever wished to be something more. "You can listen to this naysayer, but I promise you this: if we succeed, all will share in the wealth of the mountain." The crowd looked immensely pleased and began to smile. "You will have enough gold to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over!"

The crowd cheered. Bard turned to face them, his desperation evident. "All of you! Listen to me—you must listen!" They quieted, curious. "Have you forgotten what happened to Dale? Have you forgotten those who died in the firestorm? And for what purpose?" I watched through a red haze as the faces of the townspeople fell, each remembering stories of family members lost and the devastation the dragon wreaked upon the once mighty city of Dale. The bowman turned to face Thorin, pointing at him, his face twisted with an emotion I did not recognize. "The blind ambition of a Mountain King, so driven by greed, he could not see beyond his own desire!"

I could not tell who I would have sided with if given a choice. Luckily, I was not. The Master of Laketown stepped up, looking pompous. "Now, now. We must not, any of us, be too quick to lay blame." He oozed wealth, captivating the audience. I wished I had been well enough to shoot him, but I was too weak, physically, mentally, and morally. "Let us not forget, that it was Girion, Lord of Dale, your ancestor, who failed to kill the beast. Hm!?"

Alfrid stepped up. "It's true, Sire. We all know the story!" He stepped up, flapping his arms dramatically, gaining the attention of the townspeople once again. Bard looked angry but did not keep him from speaking. He looked almost ashamed. "Arrow after arrow, he shot. Each one missing its mark."

He sneered at Bard, and I stumbled forward, the haze clearing for a moment. I leaned on Dwalin's shoulder, and he gripped my elbow to balance me. My voice came out steady and filled with loathing. "You make it sound like killing a dragon is easy, Alfrid," I spat, eyes narrowed. "Perhaps we should send you to the mountain with a bow and see how you fare against it?"

Many of the townspeople laughed as he flushed, backing away. Bard took a step closer to Thorin, speaking quieter than before. "You have no right. No right to enter that mountain."

Thorin looked up at him solemnly, his face impassive. "I have the only right."

Grief filled me as he spoke, and suddenly the lines from the prophecy I had had the night before came to mind. 'Starlight's daughter leads alone, Doomed to die for Dwarven throne.'

'Starlight's daughter…' Most likely me; my mother's constellation shone above me where I stood. 'Leads alone?' I am no leader, unless it meant that I would stand for someone or something no one else would… 'Doomed to die for Dwarven throne.' I decided that it spoke of those who would rule, and not simply for the throne itself. 'But would that be Thorin? Fili? ... Kili? All of them?!' No. I would not let that happen. I would not let my vision come true.

Thorin spoke again, this time addressing the Master directly. "I speak to the Master of the men of the lake. Will you see the prophecy fulfilled? Will you share in the great wealth of our people?" The Master hesitated, but I could see the light of greed that shone in his eyes, added to the fact that he could not decline without starting a riot. "What say you?" Thorin barked.

"I say unto you... Welcome!" He smiled, displaying browned, crooked teeth. "Welcome and rise! Welcome, King Under the Mountain!"

The crowd began to cheer, and Bard turned, walking away. I stopped him, placing my hand on his arm. "Wait—"

"It is over," he said softly to me. "I thank you for your help: you are welcome in my home anytime. However, your friends are fools for befriending the Master of this town. He is a snake."

"I know. Is there no way of fixing this?" I wanted to know.

"No. Your king is blind and is as foolish as his grandfather, not seeing his greed. Farewell, Princess." I started at the use of my title, and he cracked a smile as we were jostled by the crowd. "Aeyera is not a common name, my lady." He bent at the waist, bowing. "I wish you good fortune on your journey."

My throat closed as I nodded, bowing back. "I thank you, Bard, son of Girion, Lord of Dale."

His face clouded. "Do not call me that."

"A wise dwarf once told me that one cannot give away one's title, no matter how far they run from it. It is yours by birth, bowman."

He looked doubtful but nodded slowly. "Perhaps, but it is only a name."

"Names have power," I reminded him. He shrugged. "I bid you goodnight," I told him. "Go home to your children. And if something happens…" I trailed off, looking him dead in the eye. "Get your family out of here."

He blinked, and then he was gone. I turned. The first set of eyes I met was that of Thorin, who looked pleased with himself and who had evidently not noticed me speaking with Bard.

"Aeyera." I turned and met the blue-eyed gaze of the crown prince.

"Fili," I greeted, not sure how to continue. Snowflakes glinted on his hair and beard, leaving tiny droplets of water when they melted. His figure shone because of the snow, making him look as though he had been doused in miniscule jewels.

"You fell." It was neither a question nor a statement; he clearly wanted an explanation. One that I did not plan on giving in the middle of a crowded square while my old wound throbbed with every beat of my heart.

"Yes."

"Fili! Aeyera!" We both turned to see Thorin beckoning to us. "Come! We are to sleep here tonight." The crowd began to thin, the excitement dissipating. We followed the king inside with the rest of the company. Alfrid glared at me as I passed, my head held high. I looked over at him disdainfully, my hand moving to rest on the pommel of my sword. He noticed and drifted away, leading us down the hall.

We were led to a dining hall of sorts. I suppose that it was alright, by human standards—although it would be considered pitiful by the standards of most races besides their own—it was small with a single, long table upon which sat several barrels of mulled wine and beer, which seemed to raise the spirits of many in the company.

I sat with Fili and Kili, who watched the festivities but did not participate other than to eat. Kili because he felt ill—understandable, he was as white as a sheet—and did not want to show it by vomiting. Fili because he did not wish to have a hangover the next morning—I decided that this was a lie, dwarves get drunk about as easily as elves do—although I suspected he really just wished to speak to Kili and I. And I because I did not feel as if we had much to celebrate: we had insulted the one truly honorable man in the town and were now relying on the Master, who frankly disgusted me.

"May we speak?" Fili asked, speaking up to be heard over the clamor of the rest of the company. I nodded. The three of us rose to our feet—Kili and I with some difficulty—and left the room, ending up in one of the bedchambers being lent to us for the night. We settled on the floor beside the lit fireplace, enjoying the soft pelts laid out on the floor to make it more comfortable.

"Why did you fall?" Fili asked again. Kili looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the red light of the fire back at me.

In answer, I pulled up the edge of my tunic to reveal my stab wound, which, I was alarmed to see, was nearly black. The veins around it were back as well, so my skin looked to be crisscrossed with pitch-like spider webs. "Mahal," Fili breathed, eyes wide.

"Aeyera, is that—?" Kili couldn't seem to finish the thought. He just stared, horrified, at the veins that crept along beneath my skin, poisoning my blood.

"Yes," I whispered, placing a finger to my skin. It felt hot, worse than it had ever felt before—besides, of course, the original wound—and was slightly swollen. "I was stabbed by a Morgul blade in my youth," I tried to clarify for Fili. "It never truly healed." A flash of—something?—crossed Kili's face. "Kili?"

"Hm?" His eyes were darkened by pain; his whole body was wracked by it.

"Let me see your leg," I demanded, a feeling of panic bubbling up in me. I knew that in less than twenty four hours, I would be unable to move or think, and I needed to do as much as I could in that time.

"Aeyera, what's wrong?" Fili asked, looking alarmed. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten about his brother's wound in his hurry to understand mine, so I reminded him, my voice rising hysterically. "Kili was shot—by an arrow. Kili, do you have the arrow?"

He looked confused. Despite the heat from the fire, he shivered as if outside on the ice. "No, the shaft snapped off when I fell."

"What of the arrowhead?" I asked, dread twisting my insides. "Where is it?"

"I don't know," he said, looking pained and guilty. "Still in my leg, I suppose."

My shriek could have been heard in the Elvenking's palace; I was fairly certain that the voices below us quieted for a moment. "What?!"

"Princess!" Fili exclaimed with no undue measure of alarm. "What is wrong?"

I placed my head in my hands. "A Morgul shaft," I murmured, horrified. "You were hit by a Morgul shaft."

"Hey, hey—" Fili shook me slightly, clearly unnerves by my loss of composure. "You don't know that. He could just be sick!"

"Let me see the wound, then!" I snapped. Fili drew back. I often forgot they were royalty; that I shouldn't be speaking to him that way. Then again, so was I. I suppose we stood on even ground, then.

"Princess." The three of us turned to see Dwalin standing in the doorway, looking angry. "That sniveling fellow, Alfrid—he told the Master of Laketown who you are." Ice coated my stomach, making me want to vomit. "He wishes to speak to you."

"No," I answered, surprising even myself with my boldness.

"Yes," Thorin replied sharply, appearing behind the old warrior. "If you refuse, the Master may decide against helping us."

"If I agree," I countered, "I may end up dead, whether by the Master's hand or by Thranduil."

"You really think that we will allow that to happen?" Thorin asked seriously, raising a dark eyebrow.

'Yes.'

"I do not think they will allow you a say in the matter." Every fiber of my being itched to run, to fly out the window and be free of my name, which was a curse in and of itself. Forget the Morgul wound—I might not live long enough for it to take my life.

"Come on," Thorin said, stepping aside for me. "We must make haste." I stumbled, catching my balance on the doorframe. The pain was intense, but not nearly as bad as I knew it would grow to be. At this rate, the flogging I received would be akin to an embrace compared to the agony I knew I would face. "Are you alright?"

I nodded, feeling sweat beginning to bead on my forehead despite the sudden chill of a breeze that had found its way through the cracks into the wooden 'palace'. Thorin led the way to the Master's study, where the fat man sat drinking a brandy. My nose wrinkled with disgust and Dwalin looked upon him with obvious distaste. Thorin was the only one who kept his face emotionless and unreadable.

"We are here," he told the man. It was obvious to me that he hated being an errand boy—he would sooner be roasted by Smaug than bow to someone as weak as this coward before us. He made this clear in his body language as he stood protectively beside me, arms crossed, even when it was clear that the man wished for he and Dwalin to leave.

"So I hear that you are Aeyera," the man said, rising with difficulty from his chair. "Princess of the Greenwood. Am I correct?"

"For the most part," I responded, glowering at him. He looked me up and down, much to my obvious displeasure. As his eyes roved over my body, I made an obvious show of placing both hands on my sword, which was enough to make his eyes dart make to my face.

"And yet you are here?" He asked, his eyes not daring to stray again. "In the company of dwarves."

"My father does not dictate my actions, worm," I spat in my own tongue. Thankfully, he did not speak Elvish, although I heard a snort of laughter from Dwalin. I was surprised; I did not think he would know my language. In the common tongue, I spoke again. "That is the message he sent," I replied. "I am to guide them to the mountain in exchange for mithril and the starlit gems that are my people's legacy." Switching to my own tongue, I spoke to Dwalin. "Tell Thorin not to worry, I am telling him only what he wishes to hear."

"Why do you switch tongues?" The master asked irritably, eyes darting from Dwalin's to Thorin's to mine.

"Do I?" I asked, feigning surprise and concentration. I could hear Dwalin speaking softly to Thorin in Khuzdul, translating my words to him. "I apologize, I am unused to speaking the common tongue; I suppose it slipped my mind."

He sniffed. "No matter. You may return to your room." I bowed mockingly, my wounds stretching painfully, and then left, Thorin and Dwalin behind me. Thankfully, the man had forgotten to finish his conversation, being distracted by the changing languages.

"You understand Elvish?" I asked Dwalin curiously as we travelled up the stairs to our rooms. Most of the dwarves had retired, although Bofur still sat in the main room, drinking.

"Aye. I figured that understanding an enemy would be better than having no idea to what's going on. It served me well while in Mirkwood. As it was, I was the first to figure out who that blonde elvish warrior was. It wasn't until later that I told the rest of them that he was your brother, the prince."

I nodded, pressing the heel of my hand against my side. "I see."

"Sleep well," Thorin interrupted, pointing to the door Kili and Fili were behind when last I saw them. "We leave early tomorrow."

I nodded and went inside. Thorin most definitely did not know about Kili and I, if he would willingly allow he and I to stay in the same room together. Fili was awake when I opened the door.

"You're alive," he said dryly.

I let out a breath of laughter and crossed to an empty bed, stretching out on it. "I suppose I am."

'For now.'

"Kili was worried," he continued, staring into the fire. "So was I, actually."

I sighed. "Fili—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You can take care of yourself, you're stronger than you look, etc. But you're not invincible, you know. It's odd, but you've become like a little sister to me."

"I'm older than you by a century," I pointed out, rubbing the scar as it gave a particularly nasty throb.

"Age is but a number," he retorted. "And you look younger than you really are. Who knows—you might end up being my sister one day anyway. The point is—You're not invincible, so stop acting like it. We care about you, and we would gladly die for you. So stop getting into trouble, alright?"

"Alright," I said softly, humbled. "Fili?"

"Hm?" He was stretched out in front of the fire, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're a good friend."

He smiled, the braids of his mustache lifting. "That I am. Goodnight, princess."

"Goodnight, Prince."