A/N: This chapter is set in the 'present day', when Astrid and Elrond meet again in Mirkwood. It starts immediately after Chapter 3 ends. (Also … two chapters in just under two weeks! (rather than two months!)) I hope you enjoy the new chapter.

Chapter 8: Astrid of Dale

'I never thought to see you again.'

Her words hung in the silence between them. They watched each other across the room, warily.

For a long time he did not answer her. 'Do not doubt that the last thing I expected while in Mirkwood was to find you close to drowning in the Enchanted River.'

She smiled despite herself. He had never seen her smile before. It suited her more now than it could have when he had first known her. When had she learned to smile, when had she acquired this new openness?

But now she was frowning. 'Of course. But you at least have had some days to recover.' She was still leaning against the pillar for support.

'Forgive me; will you not sit down?' He pulled out a chair for her.

She went to it and sat, looking up at him uncertainly, guarded. He could not read her.

He could not help speaking to her gently. 'I hope you feel well again. I did my best to heal you of the effects of the river, but I fear some of its magic may still linger. Can you remember everything that has happened to you in the last week?'

She blinked up at him, her mind far away; she turned from him, closing her eyes, speaking painfully. 'I do not know if I can fully comprehend this. When last I saw you – a prisoner –' she shook her head, weariness in her expression. 'How young I was then.' Her voice grew strained. 'And now to learn that you are not only a lord but Master of Rivendell –' She turned on him suddenly, surprising him with her urgency. 'Tell me; are you or are you not Elrond Half-elven of the legends?'

He forced himself to meet her eyes. 'I am.'

Her lips parted soundlessly, her face full of emotion. She bowed her head, her voice low. 'I do not know how to speak to you.'

He was not prepared for how much those words troubled him. 'I understand that this is a shock to you –' He broke off, searching for adequate words and finding none. What could he say to her? In the Tombs they had not known each other well; and yet while there he had never felt this uncertainty with her. Indeed, in all his long life, he could not remember ever having been as lost for words as he was now. 'I am sorry,' he said at last.

She looked up at him, her expression almost harsh. 'There is nothing for you to be sorry for.'

He moved away slightly. 'I am sorry to cause you this distress. It was never my intention.'

She said nothing, only watching him warily.

He tried again. 'How did you feel when you woke? Have you recovered most of your memories?'

But this seemed to be a worse approach. She was withdrawing from him yet further, retreating behind barriers of reserve. He did not know what to do.

At last she spoke, her voice cool and polite. 'I felt fully recovered this morning, though there are still some gaps in my memory.' She bent her head. 'My lord.'

Her voice was low and uncertain as she spoke the title, but still it felt wrong to him to hear it on her lips. He looked away from her, wondering where this meeting had begun to go wrong.

'I do not yet know your name,' he said quietly.

For a moment softness crept into her face. She smiled cautiously. 'I am called Astrid, now.' Her smile grew ironic. 'Astrid of Dale, by some, Astrid the Harad by others.'

He had noticed that she still retained a slight but noticeable Harad accent. Where had she learned to speak the Westron tongue? What had made her leave the temple? There were so many things he wanted to know, yet he felt he could not ask.

'My lord Elrond.'

They both turned; a young elf-woman stood in the doorway, her red hair a shock of colour against the dark green tunic the Mirkwood elves favoured. She looked at Astrid, curious and alert.

'My king would see his mortal guest now that she is awake.'

'I will escort her to him personally.'

'He wishes to see her alone.'

Elrond glanced at Astrid to find she was looking at him, frowning. 'Very well,' he said at last. 'Until later, my lady.' He bowed to Astrid. She seemed uneasy at the gesture.

She hesitated, before rising and bowing to him in turn. 'My lord.' She went to follow the Mirkwood elf.

He watched her go, then pulled out a chair and sat, lost in thought.

He had not known how this initial meeting would go, but he had not expected it to be so sensitive, or so strained. He still could not fully believe that she was here. With a pang he realised he had not asked her how long she intended to stay. Would Thranduil send her away? Would he see her again?

And what would Thranduil say to her? More importantly, perhaps, what would she say to the king?

But such thoughts were too complex for him to dwell on now. Instead he turned his mind to her name. How had she come to choose it? The name Astrid had its origins in Dale, and meant 'divine strength'. He smiled slightly; he could think of few names which would have better suited a woman who had once guarded one of the purest objects remaining in Middle-earth, and had possessed the strength to resist its lure.

And what had become of the jewel? He was surprised now to realise how far it had been from his mind during their meeting.

'Elrond!' Lindir had appeared in the entrance, his expression anxious.

Elrond rose to his feet at once. 'Yes?'

'The orc pack sighted yesterday has changed course in the last hour and is now dangerously close to the Halls. Riders are readying their weapons as we speak, Glorfindel among them.'

His decision took only a moment to make. 'I will ride with them.' Then, thinking quickly, 'A moment, my friend. Tell Elladan and Elrohir to meet me before I set out.' He cast about, searching for quill, ink and parchment. Finding them, he began to write. 'And, if you are willing, please give this note to Astrid of Dale.'

The Mirkwood King's Halls were cavernous, pillars soaring hundreds of feet into the air. It was hard to tell if they were made of stone or living wood. Astrid followed the elf-woman along a path suspended in the air, and felt even less at ease than ever. What was she doing in this place? If only she could remember what had brought her into the forest, and then, unwittingly, into this palace.

She knew very little about the Mirkwood King, though Dale was not far from his realm. It was said that he never ventured beyond his halls, and jealously guarded his kingdom … in which strangers were never welcome. She did not even know his name, while she had heard of many other elves: the Balrog-slayer, Glorfindel; Galadriel, Lady of Lothórien; and Elrond …

The revelation of the true identity of her long-ago prisoner was still too fresh for her to think of calmly. To see him again, after she had given him up for good, and then to find out that he was the Lord of Imladris, Gil-Galad's herald, and warrior of the Last Alliance... The name of Elrond had often been mentioned in fireside tales, and when he did not figure in a tale directly, his name would nonetheless appear in connection with his illustrious ancestry. His mother's grandmother had been Lúthien Tinúviel, fairest of all the elves; and his father was Eärendil the Mariner, whose name was often invoked in a muttered prayer by the fishermen of Dale when venturing out on stormy waters.

He belonged to another world.

Was it any wonder, then, that their meeting had been filled with such uneasiness? What must he think of her, after all that had happened? She felt drained, vulnerable.

And all the while she was troubled by the feeling that she had forgotten something vital, something he too knew about.

'My lady.'

She glanced up, not registering for a moment that it was she who was being addressed. Her guide had stopped in front of a pair of huge, carved oak doors. On either side stood guards, their faces hidden behind veiled helmets, their eyes empty of emotion.

'The king awaits you.'

At these words the doors began to open, not making a sound for all their weight.

Astrid turned to her guide, struggling to hide her dread. 'How am I to address him? I have never met a king before.'

The elf-woman smiled; her face suddenly alight with warmth. '"Sire" will do, I should think.' Then she turned and walked away before Astrid could thank her.

Astrid hesitated in the doorway, depressingly aware of the space and silence all around her. Mustering her courage, she began to walk into the huge hall, her steps echoing in the vast chamber. At the other end of the hall was a dais with a throne. In the throne sat an elf as unlike Elrond as it was possible to be.

Everything about him was cold and proud. The crown on his head was threaded with the berries of autumn, and yet they seemed too perfect, too preserved to be quite real. There were no visible marks of care or hardship on his brow, or around his mouth, but there were no marks of joy either. It was difficult to imagine that he ever smiled, unless in bitterness. There was something hollow in his expression, something that spoke of a centuries-old pain that haunted him still.

She stopped a few feet away from the dais. He made no move to greet her, only watching her with one hand propping his chin, a study of dispassion. They watched each other for several long moments, before she lowered her eyes.

She heard the whisper of his robes as he stirred slightly.

'Will you not tell me your name?'

'I am Astrid of Dale, sire. I thank you for your hospitality to my brother and I. We never meant to intrude into your halls.'

'You mean that you would be happier outside my palace.'

She glanced up at him, surprised at the slight smile on his lips. She had been right in her earlier guess; it lacked any hint of warmth.

'Tell me; what brought you to Mirkwood? You were found beyond the reaches of my Halls, where the dangers of the forest are still undefeated. How is it; that a mortal woman and child walked unarmed through the shadows of those evil-ridden trees, while my own people retreat behind my walls?' His voice deepened, commanding, compelling the listener to obey and trust. It was a deeply attractive voice, and yet it gave her no pleasure to hear it. 'What are you doing in my forest?'

She did not answer at once. Though she could not remember the reasons that had brought her to Mirkwood, she was sure that she would not have wanted to share them with him even if she knew them. She straightened her back. 'I did not realise you claimed the outer reaches of the forest too. Unprotected, I thought they belonged to no man – or elf, and did not think I was trespassing.'

'An equivocator.' He smiled mirthlessly. 'I will give you another chance to answer my question.'

'I cannot tell you, for I cannot remember my reasons myself. The spell of the river is not yet entirely lifted.'

'You do not intend to deceive me, I hope.' He waited, but she remained silent. His eyes gleamed. 'Very well. You may keep your secrets for the moment.' He rose to his feet, towering over her, his robes pooling around him like liquid silver. 'Would your brother be able to tell me why you led him out of Dale and into these woods?'

His swift change of topic was disconcerting. 'No. My brother knows nothing of my reasons.'

'Then your reasons must have been confidential indeed, to require secrecy from your own flesh and blood.'

'Indeed.' Her tone admitted nothing.

He smiled appreciatively, the sight only chilling her. Her feeling that she must keep her mission secret from him at any cost grew stronger.

'I must assure you, sire, that my brother and I have no intention of intruding on your hospitality any longer. We ask only that we might replenish our supplies here, since we lost half of our stores to the river, and we will be on our way.'

'So soon?'

She did not know how to reply, and so she kept her silence.

'Where will you go when you leave? Can you even remember your intended destination?'

'I cannot,' she admitted. 'But I know I must leave as soon as I can.' But as she spoke she thought of Elrond. If she left now surely she would never see him again.

The king stepped down off the dais, beginning to circle her at a distance. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, trying to subdue the rising feeling that she was being studied for weakness.

'You say you are of Dale, yet that cannot have been your home originally. There is something about your voice that speaks to me of some other homeland.' He paused. 'Harad, perhaps.'

A cold bead of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. How much did this elf-king know? How much had Elrond told him? Suddenly she felt angry. What right had he to pry into all her secrets? 'You are correct. I was raised in Harad. But it is my home no longer.' Her tone made it clear that she would speak no further on the subject.

'I see I have pried too far into a subject close to your heart.' His words mocked her, hinting that he had not yet pried far enough.

He had completed his orbit of her. He mounted the dais and lowered himself onto his throne once more, lazily draping an ankle over the opposite knee.

'You are free to leave my Halls whenever you wish.'

She stared, not sure if she had heard correctly.

But he was not yet finished. 'But only on one condition. If … you tell me honestly why you are here, you may leave in an hour of your own choosing.'

While she was still speechless with dawning dismay, the doors behind her opened again and a Mirkwood elf strode into the hall. He went to the king's side and whispered into his ear. Astrid caught none of the words, but she saw that the king's face was grim and forbidding, increasing her unease. He gave short instructions to the messenger, too low to be heard, and the elf departed at once.

The king turned his eyes on Astrid. His earlier mocking watchfulness had turned to a careful remoteness. 'You should be informed, I suppose, that my doors are now closed to everyone inside the palace.' The king's voice was utterly dispassionate, brooking no argument. 'Spiders are swarming, and orcs have been sighted not far from here. Until my guards have dealt with these threats no one will go in or out.' His eyes narrowed. 'And you, Astrid of Dale, will remain here until you have thought of a truthful answer to my question.'

With those words, Astrid knew she was dismissed.

A/N: Please leave a review; I thrive on them.

I should note that according to canon Dale was not actually founded until 65 years after this story is set. However, for story purposes, I hope we can all disregard this. If you're interested, I've found 'Awaken' (Jane Eyre) by the film composer Dario Marianelli very inspiring to listen to while writing this story. I've also been listening addictively to all the Mirkwood themes from The Desolation of Smaug film, particularly 'The Feast of Starlight'.

Can you guess who the red-haired elf might be?