Forgotten Nobility

TA 2940, April 27th.

Late spring is mild in Middle Earth, Aínwar thought.

The frost from the night before had settled on the plains, sweeping up into dusty white piles anytime the gusts picked up. She clutched her compact bag closer to her body, adjusting her eyes. The sun was lingering on the horizon longer and longer with each passing day, a blinding pale circle shimmering across the plains, the nearby daymoon drifting into its light. She always had troubles going outside this time of year — the winter months were ruthlessly long and bleak, and her eyes unaccustomed to the harsh glow. She was raised by the twilight hours, relying on dragonfire and the aurora to guide her way through the darkness.

Tarlaeth had escorted her to the north of the Ered Mithrin but, expectedly, had refused to travel further.

The dwarvenkind who live amongst these hills would not be…appreciative of my presence, Tarlaeth had explained with great regret. Aínwar sensed that the dragoness was reluctant to let her go into these unknown and possibly hostile lands. The king who seeks to reclaim Erebor goes by Oakenshield. We are sorry we cannot offer you anymore information. The rumor of his quest is so light upon the wind that Rulzhag's sources spared him no additional details. You will have to make do. But — never forget that you have the heart of a dragon. You are one of us. Do not allow the Black to have reign over us once more…protect the flame of Zenta'ganna. I have confidence that you will succeed. Goodbye, little Firekeeper, and be safe.

Aínwar had given her a fierce embrace to the snout, committing their optimistic parting to memory, and received the blessing of Tù'gathar once more. Feeling rejuvenated and brave, she had given one last teary goodbye to her old friend, then crossed the threshold of the Grey Mountains.

She had been aware that there were dwarves in those hills, but she had been either unnoticed or ignored; so she had passed her time in quiet solitude, not quite unlike the last four-hundred years of her life. And so, many days later, she had emerged from the mountains, without complication and without any idea where to go from there — her objective, first and foremost, had been to follow the stars directly south.

But what now?

As she walked, she often considered where her mission would begin. Who would she go to? Who would even deign to listen? The Matron Mother had told her plenty of stories about the folk of Middle Earth in her childhood, but even lonesome Aínwar knew that politics were important and alliances could change on a whim.

She did not have many options, and soon she resolved that she had no better idea: directly before her was the Wilderland, where the kingdom of Mirkwood was ruled by an Elvenking…

In the Matron Mother's stories, the elves were always Aínwar's favorite characters. She had a deep and profound respect for Ëarendil, legendary slayer of the Black, who was half-elven. The elves, she was told, were immortal. Powerful and beautiful too, with wise, serene dispositions. She had lost many a night of restful sleep, awake and thinking particularly hard about the tales of the Sindar, who had abandoned their journey across the Great Sea to Aman, the Undying Lands.

Why, she had asked, would they do that? Why wouldn't they go?

But elven history was endless and convoluted, and even the Matron Mother, who had lived for so long, was not alive during those times and thus had no conclusions for little Aínwar.

The Matron Mother did have stories about the few elves she had personally met, and she used to describe them in great detail: fair-faced with starlight hair and, of course, pointed ears. As an adolescent, Aínwar would often peer into their crudely fashioned mirrors, examining her own face and wondering if she could have been descended from elves — yet, she had eventually come to the disappointing acceptance that she, born as a Firekeeper, was far too different to have been one of the Sindar.

The first Firekeeper, Zenta'ganna, was a magnificent dragon who had fallen in love with the folk of Middle Earth. She herself was a minion of Morgoth, a captain of the Black's armies — who or what became the catalyst for her change was never clarified, or perhaps lost to history and oral tradition, but in the end Zenta'ganna saw the destruction she had caused and transformed her ways.

She met secretly with Ëarendil, plotting her betrayal, knowing that the forces of evil were seldom put to quiet and irreversible deaths. When the time came for the mighty Ëarendil to swing his sword, to slay the Black…Zenta'ganna used the old magic and sacrificed her dragonfire heart, trapping her master's soul within its depths and ensuring that, for as long as her heart beat, he would never return.

Therefore, she was redeemed and, because she had loved like a person, she became one.

Zenta'ganna traded her wings for vertical scars on her back; sharp talons for fingernails; ridges of horns for flowing hair…and her skin had become black, much like a dragon's flesh beneath its scales. And yet, she had maintained some semblance of her serpentine form, and of these traits, many of them had been passed down the generations to Aínwar.

Aínwar smiled as thought of the story. She could never cite it without a sense of pride washing over her. However, she had always felt a little sad too…for Zenta'ganna had indeed become human, but her unique, draconic features had made men, elves, dwarves, and all the other commonly known folk very anxious. Despite her heroic sacrifice, she was cast from Middle Earth for what she was, confounded for both her past wrongdoings and her mystifying appearance.

Like a devil wearing the disguise of flesh, they had said.

While Aínwar's skin was more tawny than black, pupils more circular and form-fitting to her yellow eyes, obsidian horns shorter and certainly less threatening…she also remembered from the stories that folk never liked things that were too different from them, and she remained acutely aware that her look could get her harmed, captured, or killed.

But, she said with unshakeable conviction, I like who I am. I am PROUD of I am, and they will either accept me or not — but I shall not be changed.

Aínwar refused to hide herself. She simply could not. She would not creep into these lands like a cowardly hatchling, for she was a warden of dragons, and a living, breathing example of a forgotten nobility. Of bravery. Of sacrifice.

Of love.

x

TA 2940, May 10th.

Aínwar needn't have looked so hard for the elves.

In the end, they found her.

She used the spring weather to her advantage, traveling only after eventide until daybreak. For the most part, she had not encountered anything but small animals in the Wilderland, with the occasional herd of deer and a few provoked boars, some of which were vengefully served for dinner. But as the realm of Mirkwood appeared in the distance, a dense forestland of unknowns, she grew more and more apprehensive, and thus far more prudent about her safety.

The forest was hedged by random collections of rocky hills and foliage, and upon discovering this, she immediately took shelter amongst the trees and started a discreet fire. The sun had not yet breached the horizon, but she wanted time to think about what she would say. The last fortnight of adventure and hidden danger had failed to inspire anything in her at all.

Additionally, the strength that Tarlaeth's Tù'gathar had given her was fading all too quickly.

Aínwar could survive without it, but not without difficulty. The withdrawals were the worst — she had grown accustomed to stimulating effect it had on her, and now, far from home, she felt uncomfortably cold and a little sluggish. The last time she went this long without dragonfire, it had been nearly a third of the year before all of her senses seemed to right themselves.

"I am in no better place than before," she said, miserably aloud to herself, as she stoked the fire, "only in a different location..."

Aínwar situated a small rabbit she had caught over the flames, then laid out her weapons, carefully considering what she would relinquish and what she would keep. Despite the stories of their grace, she highly doubted that the elves would welcome a stranger armed to the teeth in their woodland; she cynically hoped that, if she appeared less threatening, they would leave her head upon her shoulders long enough for her to explain…

The artlessly crafted bow she had made could stay here, she decided, assuming that there would be little room for long-distance combat where she was going. Even the arrows were roughly fletched and had questionable accuracy. She had assembled the bow with whatever wood she could find, and while it was nice for shooting game, it was otherwise useless.

Plus, it was ugly. The elves might scorn her for her terrible craftsmanship long before they took her head off for other reasons…

She had also taken some stone from the Ered Mithrin — with a few grateful words of thanks, of course, to appease whatever gods or dwarven folk who might have been watching… — and made an even uglier axe.

That could stay.

But her dagger… Aínwar held it to the firelight, turning it over.

How she loved this blade. Dainty and petite, yes, but deadly and strong from the dragonbone material. This one, she had made only a few years after drinking the Duwín-ma. With a melancholy smile, she fingered the small tooth hanging from its handle — one tooth of many that had hung from the Matron Mother's bone pendants. She stared at it for a long time…wondering if any epiphanies would come to her in that moment….before sheathing it in her belt.

If she had not lived so long, deeply attuned to the muted sounds of the waste — soft footfalls on snow…the turn of a dragon's wing upon the wind — she would not have heard the blade withdraw to her throat at the very same moment she sheathed her own.

What transpired afterwards happened in less than three seconds:

Aínwar swung her body away from the blade's edge and faced her attacker; she caught a single, brief glance at his surprise before she rolled effortlessly off of his body, stepped behind him, and held her dagger to his own neck. She registered silky blond hair against her cheek as she detained him…

Then felt a sharp point against the small of her back.

She stared straight ahead, tense as a drawn bowstring. She was hyperaware of the muffled footsteps behind her, and it was no wonder they had surprised her at all, for this gait was one she recognized. One of intimacy, of reverential connection to the world — the same stride she had developed herself after hundreds of years of traversing the Northern Waste. She surmised only one kind of Middle Earth folk would have such a steady footfall…one even quieter than hers.

Much, much quieter.

Vexed, she sighed and lessened the strength of her chokehold…but only a little.

"I'm no threat to you or your company," she said to her assailant. He had hardly struggled, but his breathing was mildly shallower. Louder, so that the others could hear her, she said, "I'm going to turn around now, so that I may have the privilege of seeing who managed to sneak up on me. Allow me this, and I will release him."

The only sign of approval she received was the release of pressure against her back — whoever it was, they had withdrawn their blade. Very carefully, she reversed directions, and beheld the stormy blue eyes of an elven man.

And for an infinitesimal moment, one that seemed to stretch for an eternity, she was thrown centuries back in time…

For eternity, meleth nîn.

…that is, until he spoke.

"Do as you promised," he said, breaking her reverie with his cutthroat tone. The voice was all wrong. She instantly knew that she had been mistaken. "Release him."

Still shaken by her evanescent dream, Aínwar breathlessly released the elf from her grip. He leapt away, facing her with hateful countenance before nocking an arrow so quickly that she had little time to even process it. It was then that she realized she had only gained the upper hand because he had simply not expected her to.

Negligent confidence, she thought. Not a trait I expected of an elf. Interesting.

"On your knees," the blue-eyed one ordered.

Seeing that she was severely ill-prepared with only a small dagger for protection, she lowered herself to the ground with her hands up, indignantly maintaining eye contact the entire way down. He pointed the tip of his blade to her throat.

"And what might you be?" he asked warily. He tilted his head, contemptuously sneering down at her. "A curious little creature indeed. Have you come to creep along the wood like your hideous friend? Shall I put you out of your misery with the same pitiful compassion, ulunn? Think twice before you respond — he never even got the chance to open his mouth."

"No dhínen, Darothil. Avo nago den."

An elven woman cautiously crept from the darkness behind Aínwar, further emphasizing exactly how outnumbered she had been from the start. The firelight glowed upon the elf's mahogany red hair, which had been intricately braided back, and she wore a practical but expertly stitched green dress, secured tight to her body with a leather cuirass. She reached out beneath Aínwar's chin and gently tilted her head up, to a chorus of disapproval from the others.

"This is no orc," she said. "This is a woman."

The blue-eyed one snorted with disbelief. "Do you not see what I do, Tauriel?"

"Horns, yes…" She turned Aínwar's head from side to side, keenly observing everything from her own pointed ears to the dusting of scales across her cheekbones. "I have seen eyes like this before…where do you come from, faelug?"

In the meanwhile, Aínwar had been debating with herself exactly how much she would reveal. These were, without a doubt, the elves of Mirkwood. If she said the right things, they may take her directly into their kingdom; she would certainly save a lot of time and energy compared to aimlessly wandering about the forest. She could hardly believe her luck.

"If I tell you," she said, "will you take me to the Elvenking?"

"Answer the question before I cut your throat—!"

"Darothil!" Tauriel said sharply. "Boe achin mened."

"I-"

"Meno. Hí!"

Darothil reluctantly withdrew his sword, then stepped aside to join the others in the background. He stood with his arms crossed in a petulant show of displeasure.

Tauriel resumed looking at Aínwar. "I'm less impulsive than Darothil," she began with a threatening smile, "but I'm just as capable of killing you if you fail to answer me in a manner both thorough and satisfactory. We have neither time nor patience for one-worded responses. Answer appropriately…or lose your head. Now, tell me, where you are from."

"North of the Ered Mithrin," said Aínwar compliantly, noting Tauriel's stress on the word 'thorough.'

"You mean Forodwaith?"

"So it is called in Sindarin. My kin call it Feigroviir, 'the banished lands.' I simply call it 'the waste.' It is as dead and cold as its namesake."

"I was unaware that any race of people lived there," said Tauriel, narrowing her eyes. "Who might your kin be? And why are you here alone?"

Aínwar hesitated.

"Thorough and satisfactory," Tauriel reminded seriously. "I will not ask again."

Sighing, and knowing that there was no simple way of phrasing this, Aínwar said, "I'm dragonkind. We live within the perimeters of a mountain range known as Dùn Ga'thuum. I've lived there for four-hundred years, and this is the furthest south I have ever been. I've come here alone—" She made sure to emphasize this, lest she immediately lose her head… "—on an important mission concerning the future of Middle Earth, which is why I humbly ask to meet with your king."

The elves exchanged hushed murmurs. Tauriel was silent for a long time, with Darothil glowering murderously all the while.

"I thought I recognized those eyes," she said slowly. Bitterly. For a moment, Aínwar thought she saw her lower lip tremble, but the night was dark and the fire was low, and she might have been mistaken. "I've seen them before…when the infernal firedrake Smaug came from over those mountains. When he staked his claim on the kingdom of Erebor, leaving nothing but ash and bonedust behind. You're saying that you are one of his kind? How is such a thing possible?"

"It is a long, forgotten story better suited for dinner and a campfire. You could join me, if you wish."

"Perhaps you can tell me from your dungeon cell instead."

"Perhaps," said Aínwar. "So we have agreed that I can keep my head?"

At this, Tauriel smiled darkly. "That will be for the king to decide. Why does your mission involve him?"

Aínwar was getting somewhere. "I bring him a warning."

"Do you mean a threat?"

"Quite the contrary. The message I wish to deliver is for the benefit of Middle Earth and all of its folk. But as I mentioned, I've never been this far south, and I'm mostly unfamiliar with the territories of this world. Your woodland realm was the first I thought to visit. I—" She paused, deliberating, lost again in the memories of adolescence. "—I've always heard the stories of elvenkind, ever since I was a child. I thought your people, above all, would be most suited to help me."

"And your message is?"

"I cannot say," said Aínwar. The elves withdrew their weapons once again. "This is information I believe to be of absolute and unconditional confidentiality — saying too much could have terrible consequences for both your people and mine. Thus, I'm committed to silence until I have the appropriate audience. I offer you this: I'll surrender myself willingly, without struggle and at your mercy, if I could be brought before the Elvenking. That's all I ask."

Aínwar held her breath, hoping that she had chosen the right thing to say and that elves were as sensible as the stories had claimed.

Tauriel contemplated her words. "Terrible consequences, you say…"

Darothil jumped in. "Tauriel, you cannot mean to—"

"I am captain of this guard, and you will not question my judgment! Mellon nîn…tôl auth, and this you know—" She began rapidly and heatedly speaking in their language, a mostly one-sided conversation that had Darothil reddening at the tips of his ears.

At its clear and decisive conclusion, she grimly stared down at Aínwar.

"You shall live to see the Elvenking's court," she said. "Consider wisely, daughter of dragons, what you will say. Because if your quest is not as compelling as you claim, even I will not be able to save you…for Thranduil is a capricious and unloving man, and he doesn't sympathize with any situations concerning dragons."

x

TA 2940, May 12th.

It was a wonder that Thranduil trusted Tauriel with half the things he did. Anytime that trouble managed to slip its way into his kingdom, somehow her name was always involved. And at the very moment that Darothil came storming into his throne room, Thranduil instantly knew that her imprudent mind had been at work…again.

"That crazy, crazy elleth," Darothil was muttering furiously, for some things never change, "is going to get me killed…!" He came to a breathless standstill at the head of the room, then bowed deeply to the king and his son. "Aran vuin, Thranduil, díheno nin. Mae govannen, Legolas. I apologize for my impolite and intrusive entrance. I hope I didn't interrupt."

Thranduil gave him a penetrating stare, for he had indeed been interrupted and was feeling quite foul about it. "Nothing can be done about it now. Speak."

"We have a prisoner whom I think you should meet at once."

"And what brought you to that conclusion?"

"I have no explanation," said Darothil, eyes darkening. "You'll have to see her for yourselves. Tauriel is on her way with the prisoner now. I will excuse myself, but first, you must know that I very strongly advised her against this decision. That…that's all."

Somehow already exhausted by the situation, Thranduil sat down, slinging his leg over the other. Fully alert, Legolas remained standing with his gaze fixated on the doors, through which Darothil had exited just as fretfully as he had entered; normally, he was amused by his longtime friend's shenanigans, but now he seemed greatly troubled. Darothil could be dramatic at best and dangerously problematic at worst, yet he had never entered their company with this much urgency before.

Legolas hazarded a guess. "Another orc in the wood?"

"Unlikely."

It was not long before the doors were thrust open again — first came Tauriel, walking with a determined stride that he most often saw right before she was about to verbally abuse someone. He pressed his fingers to his eyes to prevent them from rolling too far back into his head. Many guards — too many,Thranduil thought suspiciously — flanked her sides and, close behind them, ambled a hostage with their hands bound and a white cloth thrown over their head.

"My lord," said Tauriel, throwing herself into a crude bow. "Allow me to explain."

"Make your words count," Thranduil said warningly.

"Darothil and our guard came across a…woman on the northern plains. We captured her and seized her weapons. She nearly had Eltarluin's head, but then she surrendered herself voluntarily. We learned that she travelled south through the Ered Mithrin all the way from Forodwaith. She claimed that she has a message of paramount importance for you, and I…I conceded, my king."

"Against Darothil's judgment?"

One corner of Tauriel's mouth curled upward. "Always."

"He may be your lieutenant, Tauriel, but…" began Thranduil, then he stopped himself with an exasperated sigh. They would have this conversation — again — later. "Bring them forward. Let me see their face."

Tauriel herself removed their blinds. She gently unraveled the rope around their neck, removed the bag with a flourish, and tossed it to the ground. Then she excused herself to the side with a dip of her head, allowing him to see the prisoner in full view.

Thranduil rose from his throne, his dark brows furrowed with a formidable, and quite unfamiliar, apprehension. He was deeply disturbed, for he had never seen anyone — anything — that paralleled the remarkable creature before him.

His eyes rapidly glanced over tawny brown skin, deep and earthy like leather; serpentine-yellow eyes, and narrowed pupils; obsidian horns which protruded from the crest of its head, unfurling upward into dangerous points; long, flowing black hair, some of which had been braided with bone pendants; and a glitter of golden color dusted over the cheeks, like stardust…no, he realized with alarm. Like scales.

Initially, he was disgusted. He could not fathom exactly what he was looking at.

A demon? A witch? An orc or goblin hybrid of sorts?

He wondered what deep, accursed cave it had crawled out of. Then the Elvenking became curious…for the creature was standing placidly with its chin lifted high, its feet planted firmly onto the ground.

He shook his head. A woman, he corrected himself, quite shocked. It's a woman.

All of her other features were certainly that of a woman's — an attractive woman at that. She had wide hips, full lips, and breasts like any lady of Middle Earth…it was only until he looked at her disturbingly reptilian-like visage that he was reminded just how terrible this abomination really was.

It was sick. A mockery of womanhood.

Thranduil remained standing. His lip twitched. He simply had no words.

"What is it?" he finally deigned to ask, unable to construct anything of greater eloquence.

Even Tauriel had no explanation. Legolas had approached her and was trying to extract information from her, his voice low…but, alongside the rest of his guard, she vehemently refused to speak.

Thranduil demanded answers. He needed a forthright explanation for what he was looking at. Perhaps it would make removing the poor thing's head that much easier.

"Tauriel, tell me precisely where you—"

"Speak the common tongue," the creature interjected, her dreadfully captivating eyes never leaving his. "That I was raised to understand. Speak it, so I may understand. Perhaps I can assuage some of your fears before you inevitably cast me to the dungeons. That is the very least I hope to accomplish…for now."

Thranduil was momentarily flustered at this string of coherent, sophisticated conversation. Orcs and goblins could also speak, but they did not communicate in this way. It was not in their nature. Not that he had expected her to speak in grunts and growls, but he couldn't have been sure…he eyed the horns jutting from her head again.

"What—" he started, looking her up and down once more. "—are you, exactly?"

The woman had not yet made any moves to escape; she stood with quiet obedience, hands still tightly restrained behind her back. It was obvious she had expected this very question. "I descend from the great matriarchal line of Zenta'ganna," she said. "We have been a quiet, secluded people. Not anyone as far as I know, not even those surviving the First Age, knows who — or what — we are."

Indeed, he had never heard of this Zenta'ganna. It disturbed him further: how could an entire race of people exist and evade all of Middle Earth's perceptive bookkeeping? He had questions. Too many. For the first time in many a millennia, Thranduil was genuinely frightened.

"How many?"

Thranduil had to reassure himself that there weren't hundreds, if not thousands, of these creatures slinking around unnoticed. One was baffling enough.

"I've lived alone for centuries." Her voice was tightly wound but also patient, like she was explaining this to a child and trying to find the right words. "Zenta'ganna was a dragon, who betrayed her fealty to Morgoth during the War of Wrath. It is she who worked side by side with Ëarendil to slay Ancalagon the Black; she then used her magic and trapped his soul in her eternal dragonfire — the Tù'gathar — so that he may never rise again…but the old magic stripped her of all that made her dragonkind. My appearance is the result. Every daughter borne since then has kept Zenta'ganna's fire burning and the Black's evil intent at bay. We're known as the Firekeeper clan, the wardens of dragons; I am Aínwar, the ninth of us, and there is only one like me. You'll never see another, unless I bear a daughter…which I shall in time, otherwise this power may never depart from me."

"Why?" demanded Thranduil. "Where are your parents?"

"I've outlived my mortal father by hundreds of years. Or so I assume. I never met him." Aínwar cast a solemn glance to the side. "Firekeepers cannot maintain their immortality once their ancestral powers are cast to another. My mother gave me a swift birth, and then she, like the seven before her, floated as dust and returned to the stars. I was raised by the Matron Mother until I came of age at thirty. She…she has also found the stars again. I have been alone since. "

Thranduil's intensifying energy — a tempestuous combination of fear, anger, and distrust — was briefly sedated. He had little idea how to proceed. Orcs and goblins, he could interrogate, then finish off with a merciful beheading afterwards. This creature — Aínwar — was too much of a woman. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed thickly, so obviously proud, but still trembling like a rabbit in the shadow of its prey. He recognized the fear in that defiant stare. As much as he hated to admit it, it would be a mild shame to see her head rolling upon the floor, eyes lifeless.

"My captain said it was difficult to seize your belongings, so you are strong. Certainly stronger than a mortal woman. Why do you tolerate your capture? Why do you stand so submissively in my throne room before me, the Elvenking, with your hands bound and certain imprisonment in your future?"

"Because I intend no harm," she said, jaw clenching. "I want nothing more than to impart my knowledge and return home to the waste. I implored your guards for a moment of your time and, should it be granted, I offered to come willingly. I've never left the waste before. Your kingdom was the first place I thought to go, and the place I thought would be of greatest influence. As for spending my life in the dungeons…it…it would be worth it. I will do whatever duty necessitates."

"And what might be this message of 'paramount importance?'"

"I'm more than willing to relay all of the details of my quest to you at a later time, Elvenking," said Aínwar. "I was hoping for a larger audience with all of the representatives of Middle Earth, for this concerns each and every one of them. I hope to avoid repeating myself more than once. I urge you to summon them at once."

"You'll have to make do for now," said Thranduil, tensing. "Middle Earth is a world of tremendous proportions. You'll have to convince me that your quest is as important as you claim before the others will be bothered to travel this far."

"Fine," Aínwar said hotly, the first embers of her temper beginning to flare. "I seek the king under the mountain, the one who goes by Oakenshield—"

Thranduil burst into fits of appalled laughter. The elves around Aínwar remained steadfast in their composure, but their eyes subtly flicked back and forth to each other, either amused, uneasy, or a little bit of both.

"So it is revealed?" Thranduil laughed, pitifully shaking his head. "Perhaps you're a spy sent here to slit my throat in my sleep? Working alongside the dwarves after all? Have you and your serpents—" He spit this word out with all the acrimony he could muster. "—and the dwarves collaborated to take what rightfully belongs to me? Again? Do you really assume that you can bring Oakenshield's name into my kingdom, so nonchalantly…and escape alive? What is your excuse? Ignorance? A stupid and unhealthy sense of pride?"

Whatever cruel effect he meant to inflict on Aínwar, it did not work. Her voice tight, she continued, "You didn't let me finish—"

"You need not go on and on with your preposterous justifications. I've heard enough."

"I don't understand the petty politics of elves and men and dwarves, and all the other races of Middle Earth," Aínwar went on furiously. "If there is a quarrel or negative history you have with Oakenshield, that is not my business! If you would let me explain—"

"And your business is what, exactly?"

"I've been trying to tell you," Aínwar said grimly. "Dragons."

Oakenshield. Dragons…

Smaug, Thranduil understood. The longer he looked at her, the more he recognized the unshakeable pride of dragonkind in her eyes. He was tossed between memories of Beleriand…of the serpents he had fought in the north…and of the tower of fire which had burned Erebor and all things within it.

Aínwar Firekeeper could not be trusted. For all he knew, she could breathe fire too. Maybe she could fly. And what if her heart was easily corrupted by greed, as effortlessly as a dragon's when faced with a mountain laden by treasure? It was then that Thranduil, with enormous difficulty, ultimately decided that he needed others' counsel. Even he, who had ruled his kingdom with a sort of selfish solitude, was not foolish enough to try to handle this Aínwar-creature on his own. She must be kept under lock and key until then.

"I'm done trying to explain myself to you," Aínwar said, gaze lowering to the floor. "You will either call for aid, or your ego will be the end of this Age and all hereafter. I respect that you're king of this wood and don't trust me. So put me where you think I'll do no harm — it makes no difference to me. I only ask that, wherever I am imprisoned, that I'm given a fire in the meantime. My flesh grows cold without dragonfire to warm my heart."

She was overwhelmed by a shudder, and he did notice that her lips seemed paler than earlier.

"I don't think you're in any position to make such silly requests," said Thranduil. "And if you burn my entire wood down? Set fire to my kingdom?"

Aínwar's eyes smiled humorlessly. "Because if I truly meant you harm, Elvenking, I would have already done it."

TBC