Guest of Mirkwood

TA 2940, May 27th.

Aínwar took one last breath of fire and murmured a hasty prayer as Legolas bound her wrists.

"No apologies, please," she interrupted just as he was opening his mouth. She gave him a consoling smile. "Now that I may walk beside those I call 'friend'…that will give me the courage I need. Let's go."

Completely understanding, the two elves wordlessly escorted her from the cell, with a few more guards joining their company along the way. During her last parade through Mirkwood, she had been wearing a heavy traveling cloak; now, without it, she was far more naked. She had been given a prisoner's gown, much too large for her already considerable height, thus exposing the spray of golden scales on her shoulders and the top of her scars. She pursed her lips as she was marched through the dungeons, once again succeeding in ignoring the foul comments thrown at her.

The quiet gossip of the elves was, comparatively, a walk in the park. At one point, she felt a brave elf reach out and briefly touch her skin. He instantly recoiled, his companions jeering him on, but Aínwar neither shuddered nor lashed out. An animal she might have been to them…but she was determined to prove that she could be just as sophisticated.

"Ignorance plagues them for having never left the safety of their forest before!" said Tauriel, bristling.

"I'm sure you met our Firekeeper with equal grace," Legolas joked.

"She threatened to cut my throat," said Aínwar, appreciating the brief respite of silliness. "Friendship at first sight."

The elves chuckled, and the pressure in the atmosphere was temporarily lifted...but as they grew nearer and nearer to the throne room, she was once again overcome with a sense of dread. She held her breath as they approached the doors — they loomed above her, foreboding.

Legolas glanced at her, as if to ask: Are you ready?

Aínwar nodded once, vigilantly keeping her eyes forward.

They pushed on the doors and, far too dramatically, they swung open to reveal the commotion inside. As she and the company walked down the narrow path to the base of the throne, she felt a palpable tension circulating in the air…all conversation slowed to a hushed murmur, threatening to drown her as she waded through their murky voices. Every instinct inside of her screamed to look at the floor, to not meet their acutely intrusive eyes — but, as she had done and would continue to do, she forced her chin up and looked ahead.

There was much diversity present: others who were obviously elven, with their characteristic pointed ears and fair visages; dwarves, with their woodsmoke-traced beards and burly physiques; and even two old men, who seemed fragile like mortals, but had the aura of magic far older and more powerful than her own.

Thranduil was casually sprawled across his throne. Though he did not visibly shudder at Aínwar, as he had before, she could still see in his expression that he was bothered by her very existence. Quite accidentally, she allowed her gaze to linger on him for too long…he nearly rose from his throne, eyes challenging her.

Daring her to break, to snap.

The only newcomer she immediately recognized was the Lady Galadriel, for Tauriel had spoken of her in great length and detail. Her hair, as described, was golden and flowing, cascading down her body and over her white gown like a river of sunlight. The magnitude of her presence was overwhelming, and it was she who wore the most enigmatic expression, who peered at Aínwar through a lens different from the others.

Aínwar decided then and there that it was Galadriel's sapphire eyes that she would meet with the most fortitude. They remained like that, engaged in a silent exchange of scrutiny…even as the room exploded into conversation around them, mostly instigated by the dwarves.

"Well, what is it exactly?!"

"I have never seen anything by the likes of it!"

"You say it passed through the Ered Mithrin? We would have surely noticed its presence far before it got here!"

"It," spoke Galadriel, effortlessly seizing the attention of all who surrounded her, "is a woman. Perhaps we dare not invoke the fire inside by dehumanizing her. She is breathing flesh, like us…and holds a name dear to her, with as much sentiment as we hold our own. And she has something very important to share. Is that correct, Aínwar Firekeeper?"

For a moment, during their exchange of voiceless communication, she had felt Galadriel's presence in her mind; Aínwar uneasily realized that the Lady had been in there, that she had already extracted what she needed to know, far before anyone else had even bothered to ask.

The room apprehensively awaited her response.

"Y-yes," Aínwar said, flustered.

"It speaks!"

"I thought at first it might be an orc of some kind, but—!"

Despite the reignited turbulence in the room, Galadriel's gaze remained as intense as ever; she sat poised with the regality of a long-reigning queen, hands lightly folded in her lap. She inclined her head at the handsome man beside her — the Lord Celeborn, Aínwar guessed, based on how his mouth gently grazed her cheek as he murmured something into her ear. The pair radiated a gentle yet persistent light, and she could tell that they had ruled together for many years, inseparable and universally united.

It was quite the sight to behold, but Aínwar could not help but feel like she was intruding upon something extraordinarily sacred.

She felt an ache in her chest. Many times, she'd wished for a partner in the waste…one who would counsel her, who would help her redistribute the weight she constantly felt burdening her shoulders.

Aínwar saw the Elvenking roll his eyes. He stood, re-commanding the room with his abrupt change in posture.

"Yes, yes, it speaks and has feelings and eats and drinks and pisses like the rest of us," Thranduil said impatiently; she suppressed her laughter. "—but if we could attend to the matter at hand, so that you may leave with as much haste as you arrived!"

"I wish to hear Aínwar Firekeeper speak," said Galadriel and, again, all attention was redirected to her. "We can raise our assumptions about her and where she comes from until the stars wane into darkness, but — although I am loath to admit it — no one present in this room knows the entirety of her tale. Please, my child, if you would…"

She narrowed her eyes at Aínwar, a subtle but firm inclination to do as she was told. Aínwar bit down on her tongue, hesitant. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tauriel and Legolas hovering discreetly at the edge of the room; they both nodded a fraction of an inch, wordlessly encouraging her.

"I come from north of the Ered Mithrin…" she began cautiously, persisting even when all of the eyes previously on Lady Galadriel came to settle on her — some disturbed, like she had expected, and others aggressive in their fear of the unknown. "I'm sure you've all heard, and perhaps a few were even present, during the War of Wrath, when Ancalagon the Black guided the dark armies of Morgoth…"

And so she retold the legend, covering everything from Zenta'ganna's involvement, to the meaning of the Firekeeper name; from the darkness invading her lands, to the civil unrest between the dragons. Initially, her story was factual and without much emotion, like she was reading from a history book…but as she spoke, from her voice emerged a dormant passion. By the end of it, she was nearly in tears.

The elves were the best listeners: Galadriel and Celeborn moved naught a muscle, and the one she presumed was Lord Elrond was enthralled by the tale; he had leaned forward with his hand folded against his mouth, looking terribly concerned. Thranduil seemed to be facing the other direction, not paying attention whatsoever, but at certain parts she could see something on his face twitch — an eyelid, the corner of his lips…it was always something.

On the other hand, the dwarves were restless and irate the entire time, like wild wolves with their hackles raised. They were particularly infuriated at her mention of Smaug and his taking of Erebor — one grey-bearded dwarf even made a threatening move towards her, until one of Thranduil's guards stopped him with a spear to the throat.

But Aínwar withheld nothing. It felt almost cathartic, sharing all of this with an audience larger and arguably more distinguished than Tauriel. When she finally reached her conclusion, she shakily gathered the courage to say: "I humbly request that I be allowed entrance into Erebor, so that I may speak with Smaug. I hope to send him back to where he belongs…with no bloodshed."

"You wish to talk with the abominable beast?!" snarled a dwarf, who had bushy brows and a red beard braided with silver jewelry. His companions nodded and grumbled their assent.

"Convincing him to leave before any threats of warfare might prove beneficial for both sides of the Ered Mithrin," Aínwar managed. She had practiced these words, over and over in her cell. "It's a near impossibility that anyone besides me could enter Erebor and escape alive. I've heard a rumor on the wind, one that reached even the Northern Waste…that a company is gathering. One that intends to steal into the mountain and reclaim the treasure Smaug hoards. Should this company err in their judgment, even for just a moment, I'm afraid it could lead to violent and calamitous consequences."

Nobody contradicted her.

"I'm equally afraid of Smaug once again bringing ruin to Middle Earth," Aínwar said quietly, "and of another attempt to tear him down from the sky. I fear that this would be the catalyst to something darker, far beyond my understanding. The dragons are speaking the Black's accursed name once again. They can sense a shift in the air. An impending change. Tell me, do you also feel this disturbance? Do you see it in your lakes and forests, as I have witnessed it at the ends of the world?"

There was a collective intake of air. A few murmurs were exchanged, particularly between the elves. The dwarves merely sat there, disgruntled.

Aínwar chose each word with great attention, carefully continuing: "I travelled far from the only home I have ever known, accepted capture and imprisonment, and stand before you — at your mercy — to impart this knowledge. This isn't a claim I make lightly…but most of all, I'm afraid that the invocation of the Black's name heralds the return of…of…"

"Sauron."

The aged man sitting next to Galadriel had stood up, fraught with concern. His ancient eyes stared out from beneath his grey hat, withered hand gripping at his staff, and the lines on his old face deepened, particularly between his bushy brows and around the fringes of his grey beard. Aínwar hadn't paid much attention to him before, despite sensing an intense, magical presence near him…she had mostly attributed it to Celeborn and Galdadriel, but now she realized the full extent of his influential and formidable power.

"Mithrandir…" Galadriel said softly, touching his hand.

The man in white regarded Aínwar with a poisonously contemptuous stare, one which she felt so strongly that it was a near tangible force.

"Sarumon—" Elrond said warningly, even before he had spoken.

"That is a bold claim," Sarumon said, deep voice rumbling her bones. The lower lid of his left eye twitched, the nostrils of his hooked nose flaring. "Gandalf, we should not be leaping to any premature conclusions based on the word of— of this creature, or whatever it is we are deigning to call her!"

"Aínwar Firekeeper," Aínwar said with a twinge of venom herself; at this, Sarumon smiled thinly. "I cannot see the storm, only read the signs: the change in the energy, the smell upon the wind, the darkness blackening the clouds…I came all this way, just so I could tell you that the storm is coming. And no matter its taste of ruin, or the name who commands it — it shall be limitless and unfathomable in its destruction, and we must be prepared."

She stopped, taking a moment to moderate her increasing volume. After a few seconds of calm, she continued:

"I never considered it my responsibility to protect the people of Middle Earth. I am no king or lady of a realm. I am not royalty, and I do not live in a palace. But I can understand what it's like to care for your people, lives that you were entrusted with — because I have the same compassion for my people: the dragons. As the years went on, I began to realize that your ambitions and mine are more closely intertwined than I had ever believed. I hope to one day forge a peaceful relationship between the dragons of the waste and Middle Earth."

At this, Thranduil snorted.

"Do with this information what you will!" she snapped, suddenly very done with his behavior. She glared at him. "But know this: if this quest to enter Erebor fails, Smaug will emerge from his hibernation to defend what he believes is his—" At this, the dwarves started squabbling again. "—and there will be death. There will be fire. And that is certainty. There is no question about it. That storm is already upon the horizon of your forest, Elvenking, and I suggest you keep your eye on the skies. All great fires start as a single ember, and all grow rapidly out of our control."

Thranduil only stared back, completely aghast.

Aínwar faced the entirety of the council again, and pleadingly said: "But…but if you grant me one chance…just one…to reason with Smaug, as I've reasoned before with many other great drakes, then I swear this: should Smaug refuse…I will personally help Oakenshield slay the beast."

It was a half-lie. Aínwar knew she could never do such a thing. She might have stood a chance against a smaller, less mature dragon, but Smaug was ancient, powerful, and shameless about his corrupt ways. Even if she did somehow manage to slay him in the end, it would provoke consequences more disastrous than if the killing blow had been done by another's hand. She would never be able to return the north — ever. And she would most certainly be hunted down. The dragons would come into Middle Earth in hordes of smoke and fire, roused from their Ages of peace by her betrayal.

But if Smaug refused to leave, and he most certainly would after having spent so many years with an ocean of gold beneath his belly…she would have no choice. She could never stand about and watch as he destroyed the world that Zenta'ganna had tried to protect.

There was no option for failure.

But the council did not have to know this.

Galadriel, with her intrusively omniscient gaze, seemed to understand this. "How the Valar effect their will…" she remarked, eyes sparkling as the dwarves erupted into their loudest show of noise yet. Her voice was lost amongst the others, but Aínwar still heard her loud and clear.

Thranduil's cutting voice sliced through the dense conversation: "You've spent all this time preaching about your love for the drakes, but you would kill one of your kind? Willingly? Whose side are you truly on?"

She glared at him, beginning to feel like she would face greater opposition with the Elvenking than Smaug himself. "My mother failed to keep Smaug under control, and now I must deal with the ramifications. If we shall ever have a chance at neutrality, then we start here: with my vow to honor my word. Smaug is as much of a threat to you as he is to me, otherwise I would've never bothered to come in the first place. The sooner I have what I want — what is best for both realms — then the sooner I shall leave these lands, never to be heard of again."

A somber silence settled over the throne room. Aínwar held her breath, not daring to disturb the stillness. The dwarves glanced at the elves, who gazed meaningfully back — and Aínwar became hyperaware of the fact that an understanding had, somehow, been wordlessly agreed upon. And, also somehow, entirely without her inclusion.

Evidently, her fate had been decided before she had ever arrived.

Celeborn was the first to talk: "We are grateful for your honesty. We all recognize that you are here with good intentions, so I believe I speak for all present when I command: you shall enter the kingdom of Erebor with Oakenshield's company within the next two years, for we know not what misfortunes and troubles will befall their quest, and you will be granted an audience with the firedrake Smaug."

Aínwar audibly exhaled. "T-thank you, my lord—"

"However, we simply cannot release you into the wild to wander as you please," Celeborn continued seriously. "I am sure you understand our pressing need to keep you under our watchful eye. Though you have our confidence, one cannot be too sure during these troubling times. Thus, until Oakenshield's arrival, you shall dwell here as a guest of Mirkwood."

Thranduil straightened in his throne. "An arrangement not discussed with me beforehand. Unfortunately, I must betray your most noble opinions of me, many of which were sorely misguided, by the way… — but I have no interest in taking in a stray."

"You have long obscured yourself within the deep forests, Thranduil," said Elrond, his mouth tightening, "where none could see you, and from where none ever heard you. Not since another Age past. Not until now. It is only natural that we excluded your judgment. It has been decided, and we will not change our minds."

Thranduil's lips parted slightly; Aínwar watched them, her eyes fleetingly meeting his…he looked quite scared and alone right then, she realized. Like he had been caught in his own snare.

"During her time here," Celeborn said, "Aínwar Firekeeper shall be treated as a guest — not a prisoner. She will be provided sufficient living quarters, served food, drink, and clothing, and be guided in the ways and lore of those who dwell here in the ennorath. We leave her in your capable hands, King Thranduil."

"The forests of Mirkwood are well fortified and the closest stronghold we have to Erebor," Gandalf observed pointedly, "and dense enough to shield Miss Firekeeper from any prying eyes. And, of course—" He gave Aínwar a covert, whimsical wink. "—close enough to you that she may be spared of any temptation for trouble."

Aínwar couldn't help but smile.

Then she and Thranduil locked eyes, but his were brimming with blame while hers maintained an impassive coolness. She regretted it then and would later, starting their rapport in such an hostile manner…yet, even then, she could not look down. Refused to.

Thranduil was the first to break away.

"I…I will go make arrangements, then," he said, jaw tight.

He walked down the stairs from his throne and crossed the room. He stopped directly in front of Aínwar, his entire aura saturated with barely contained energy, like lightning in a bottle; she stared breathlessly up at him, tense as a static charge herself. For a moment, she thought he would speak…then he swept past her, the traces of his robes smelling like aged wood and spice.

And rainwater upon the earth, she thought, after a skip or two of her heartbeat.

Then he stormed out, slamming the doors shut behind him.

x

Thranduil could be an unpleasant man. He knew this. But rushing from the council meeting attended by the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, by so many of his peers…others he would — reluctantly — consider to be his equals…well, it was embarrassing.

He had tried to cover up his dramatic exit with some feeble excuse concerning the creature's living quarters, but he knew they had seen right through him. And of course, it could not—

Thranduil stopped, breathing deeply with his eyes closed.

She.

Her name was Aínwar. And if it was mandated that she would treated with same respect as any native of Mirkwood, then he needed to accustom himself to saying it, to regarding her as a sentient being with rational thought and feelings, and —and…

He sharply inhaled again, suppressing his anger and willing himself to, even for just a moment, logically reflect on his current situation and how that damn Firekeeper had influenced it.

Thranduil bitterly acknowledged that, had Aínwar looked like an orc rather than a young, beautiful woman, she would have never garnered the positive attention she had. The other elves, and especially the dwarves, would have given her a single morbidly curious once-over and promptly thrown her back into the dungeons…exactly as he had done, Thranduil remembered sourly.

But, he admitted unwillingly, though she looked different…she had an exotic refinement to her. It was elegance birthed and ripened by the wild alone — not by grand halls, jewels, and wine-drunk feasts, the sort of royalty he was so acquainted with.

During the meeting in the throne room, he had closely studied the fascinating idiosyncrasies of her face in motion — the arch of her thick, black brows when she looked at him; the sharp canines biting into her bottom lip when absent in thought; the touch of red that glazed over her scales when her temper began to get away from her.

And he'd intimately outlined the shape of her, everything beyond the horns, the scales, and those startlingly golden eyes, bright as the flower of elanor from Lothlórien…her features, rounder and softer than characteristically elven angles; her waist and thighs, thicker than the average lady of Mirkwood, but strong and fit; and her hair, not straight and silken, but heavy with curls that went every direction, black as oil.

Beautiful are the most dangerous witches and sirens, he thought grimly.

She was going to bring ruin to his kingdom with those eyes — he just knew it. The frustrated sigh that had been dormant in his chest shuddered upwards…but he contained it. Just barely.

Smothered by the fumes of his anger, Thranduil hadn't realized that he had stormed towards his own living quarters, not once thinking about where Aínwar would sleep herself. The multiple elves posted at the main doors, always on duty, were inquiringly staring at him, awaiting his next command.

"Elyón," he sighed, knowing what had to be done.

The maid immediately made herself present and available.

"The spare room in my quarters," said Thranduil, pinching his eyes, "across the hall from my own…see to it that it's cleaned and prepared. We have a...longterm guest staying there—" Elyón said nothing, but he could tell by the way her lip twitched that she knew exactly who would be taking up residence in his halls. "—and I suppose she will need, well…oh, for Valar's sake, spare me your impish grin, Althidion!"

The guard in question straightened and looked ahead, but there still remained a playful smile dancing at his lips. The group of elves situated at the doors might have been small, but they were a handpicked selection that he trusted intimately — a fact that he was starting to regret, for they tended to be cheekier than other servants, having seen and served him in some truly bizarre and questionable situations.

"What else might I provide for Lady Aínwar?" Elyón asked delicately.

"Firstly, she is no Lady—" Thranduil began. She was made a temporary resident of Mirkwood less than ten minutes ago, and now she was distinguished guest 'Lady Aínwar?' The Valar must have been having a hearty laugh at his expense.

His next words were addressed to the entirety of the household staff:

"Present her nothing of luxury. Do not allow her a key to the quarters. And find her a seamstress and get her out of those garish, savage clothes…this particular matter is of great urgency."

"Will she need a special diet?" the stewardess, Alîa, piped.

Thranduil had no clue what she ate. What had they been feeding her in the dungeons? Would their vegetarian diets even nourish a woman of dragonkind? Feeling a migraine swiftly approaching, he leapt for the simplest solution: "She can go to the dining hall, if she needs. If she's to be a guest of Mirkwood, she'll eat our food without complaint."

"And her hygiene, my lord?" asked Elyón.

"What about it? She's from the waste. I'm sure she's used to bathing herself with snow and gravel."

Elyón smiled saucily. "Will she be washing in your personal baths, or—?"

"Absolutely not," Thranduil interjected, feeling a tingling heat creeping up his neck from beneath his robes. "She can wash in the community baths. I said no luxuries."

"Do you think that'd be a good idea?"

"And why wouldn't be?"

Then he wondered if Elyón was right, after all. Aínwar's facial features were enough of an upset, and who knew what other anomalies lie under her clothes?

"Well, I suppose not," he said. "Then again, she… I — I don't know!"

Thranduil was finding himself rather flustered.

"One more thing," he said, disorientation momentarily suspended. "Bring her what she needs to make a fire. A small one, mind you. Now, just…just take care of it."

He swept into his chambers, the doors slowly closing behind him. They were immense shields of oaken wood, carved with many intricate designs and inlaid with gold trim. They made him feel safe. Not many sounds penetrated their solidity, even with the benefits of elven hearing — but in that moment, with his forehead pressed against the door, he could have sworn he heard his staff bursting into exuberant laughter.

x

Aínwar flexed her wrists and massaged away the minor burns left by her bounds. Somehow, her face had maintained its mostly even-tempered countenance, but her wrists had been trembling against the restraints, her skin lighting up like fire from how much she fought against them. She hadn't wanted to escape — only to find some form of catharsis before she knocked the Elvenking and all those stupid dwarves over their kingly heads.

She shouldn't have expected any more than a hearty dose of humiliation and disrespect which, thankfully, she hadn't. Expect disappointment, she had reminded herself, and you cannot be disappointed. However, the elves and the one they called "Gandalf," — or "Mithrandir" — had seemed rightfully concerned. There might be hope, at long last.

The council had disbanded and were mostly whispering in their own private company. Tauriel emerged from between one of them, her head tilted and an amused smile twisting her lips.

"So the big, scary dragon-girl has been freed," she remarked, and Aínwar returned her teasing with an apprehensive smile. "And given your own quarters. What an interesting turn of events. As our king is being most inhospitable, I take it upon myself to show you the majesty of Mirkwood. Except for the dungeons, of course. Those I'm sure you know intimately."

"Very funny."

Aínwar's gaze lingered on the doors through which Thranduil had so thunderously exited. An interesting turn of events, indeed. She didn't feel unsafe treading into his territory, but there was something about…about how he looked at her…that she didn't like, and yet couldn't quite identify, which made it all the more frightening.

Two years.

It would the slowest blink of all of her ephemeral immortality.

Her eyes caught Lady Galadriel, who was sharing secretive words with Gandalf. Her husband stood a short distance away with Sarumon and Lord Elrond; she placed her hand on the old man's shoulder, nodded with a sincere smile, clasped her hands together, and made to leave.

"—I wonder where you'll be sleeping, so I can show you," Tauriel was saying, but Aínwar had barely heard, "and most certainly the baths…"

"One moment," Aínwar said. Giving Tauriel a meaningful look of both gratitude and urgency, she hurried over to Galadriel. "My lady," she called, her voice escaping her like a faint gasp.

Lady Galadriel gracefully inclined her body. She was tall, exquisitely beautiful, and even more luminous up close; when she spoke, it was smooth and welcoming as honey, and suspiciously amused: "Aínwar Firekeeper. What an example of courage you have demonstrated. I envisage most interesting things being arranged for you."

Aínwar honestly had no idea how to react to that.

"T-thank you," she managed, albeit thoroughly stupefied. "I was hoping to speak with you before you left about…something else."

Galadriel's penetrating eyes shined with understanding, as if she had known from the beginning. Slowly, in the way of a being who moved through time differently, she led Aínwar to the side.

"I can sense that your fëa is quite unique, child," Galadriel said, her eyes narrowing fractionally, such a subtle flutter of movement that Aínwar had nearly missed it. "That what you referred to as your eternal flame — therein lies something wicked and dark and, most unusually, something that does not belong to you. That is the soul of the Black, I presume."

It wasn't a question. Aínwar nodded mutely.

"You are here with concerns that reach far beyond Smaug's influence, though he was the most immediate and convenient means to your end."

Aínwar closed her eyes for a moment. "Zenta'ganna is the floating boat," she said softly, "and Ancalagon is the vast, deep ocean. Hers is the lonely star, and his is the endless night sky. She is the everlasting giver of light, but…even I fear that light may not be strong enough to illuminate all the furthest reaches of the dark place in which Ancalagon resides."

"You suspect the forces of evil will take advantage of your gift," Galadriel further surmised, the arch of her brow quirking daintily.

"It's no gift, my Lady."

"That we have yet to know for certain."

Silence reigned, until Aínwar could take it no more:

"Maybe having the Black so close does make me a monster," she said with a shiver. "I would accept that. I would welcome being cast and cursed from these lands, as Zenta'ganna was, back into the lonely waste — if only it meant serving my duty. But…I'm greatly afraid of it. I made it seem like Middle Earth needed me, but after much thought, I'm quite sure that it's the other way around. And I don't see my path with clear eyes, for I believe fear has clouded them."

Galadriel smiled, placing her hand upon Aínwar's cheek; a warmth almost like the Tù'gathar swept through her entire body, and she was feeling like she was floating on Zenta'ganna's boat, lost between the moonlit tides…except now she had friends there with her.

"It is a testimony of bravery, not failure, to ask for help," the Lady assured. "You are safe here. I see that you have made friends of honorable spirit. And Thranduil is, by nature, a suspicious and cautious man. He would not allow anyone to endanger your life and what it protects — for you are now a person of Mirkwood, and that means you are important to him."

"It…it didn't seem that way."

"His true nobility will reveal itself with time, as all things good of heart do. You might be surprised. Two years awakened may transcend all the worth of two thousand asleep."

Aínwar felt ice run through her blood.

Galadriel observed her for a moment, suddenly frowning. "I can see the dragonfire coursing through you. It smolders all in its wake. Provided the opportunity, would you prefer a more subtle guise?"

"Never," she said, feeling the first ashes of her temper rekindling. "I don't care if I frighten others, I'm proud—"

"Ah, yes, of course, but should you leave this forest, all will be drawn to you like a moth to light…and I do mean 'all,'" said Galadriel. Aínwar felt foolish; she hadn't thought of it that way. "I will remedy this. I will have a gift delivered. You will understand when you see it. For now…it is probably best to remain within the boundaries of Mirkwood."

The ethereal elf pushed Aínwar's thick hair away from her shoulders, a gesture of motherly proportions which stuck her voice at the bottom of her throat. "If you continue to serve your duty as faithfully as you have," Galadriel said, "all will be well. We shall keep you safe — but above all, truthfully we are in your hands, Aínwar Firekeeper."

Aínwar felt like she had been punched in the stomach.

The words from her visions. Again. So undoubtedly the same…and the more familiar her future seemed to become, the more terrified she was of it. A tremble escaped her, and it took all the wit about her to keep her legs steady; but Galadriel was sensitive the change in the stillness, and her brows creased deeply.

"You have dreamt of a sword in a time long gone," she said, a dark curiosity edging into her voice. "And…something else—"

"How do you know about that?" Aínwar whispered, and with abrupt haste withdrew from Galadriel, feeling a little breathless. "I haven't thought of…of the sword, or the light…or…not since then…"

Galadriel straightened. "It might be pointless for me to have seen anything at all. I think you will know what to do when it is time. I will help when I can, when it is intended for our paths to cross again. For now, we must return to the forests of Lothlórien. Should you ever find yourself near its borders, you are most welcome to seek our protection."

"My Lady, I—"

"You will know what to do," Galadriel repeated, smiling. "Goodbye, child. May the Valar watch over you."

Aínwar watched sadly as she and her husband departed the throne room. Slowly but surely, everybody else followed. Their eyes glanced back towards her one more time: Elrond's with scholarly knowing, Gandalf with curious eccentricity, Sarumon with suspicious intention…all looks so very nuanced and readable, and yet so mysterious.

"Aínwar?" Tauriel touched her shoulder, startling her. Her eyes followed Galadriel's flowing blonde hair out the doors. "She often speaks in riddles and prophecies. I hope whatever she said to you was able to bring some comfort to your heart."

Aínwar nodded absentmindedly. "It did…I think?"

Tauriel smiled. "Now, what was I saying about the baths?"

TBC