Suns and Stars

by seljo

"Her life was a rather large cage, yes, but a cage nonetheless. And every choice she made was another chip in its steel bars. She would bend them. Smash them. Shatter them into a million pieces, so they could never be rebuilt. Thranduil was waiting. And she had promised to see him again."

6. The Elvenqueen

The Elvenqueen

TA 2940, May 27th.

Thranduil turned his goblet of wine over in his hands, staring at the irritatingly blank parchment before him.

His hands, which had wielded swords of great power and defeated many a dangerous foe with their dexterity, couldn't even muster the steadiness to properly brandish his pen. He'd nearly flung the damn thing through his window, until he remembered to breathe; then he had tried to read, which proved to be an even bigger failure than writing, as he had somehow managed to read the same page five times without being able to recall any of it.

The book, he actually did throw.

Alîa had peeked her head in three times with a suspiciously polite, "Wine, my lord?" before he gave a grumpy nod of assent. Even Thranduil, for as much as he loved wine, had his limits…but half a bottle later, he had relaxed significantly and was feeling stupid for having the pride to resist in the first place.

He had left the council meeting shortly after noon and had hoped that the fresh spring sunlight, streaming in through the windows of his study, would help focus his attention on formal matters. Yet, the day had simply passed on without him, and he remained lost in the same conversations from earlier that morning.

It is only natural we excluded your judgment. It has been decided, and we will not change our minds.

Thranduil's fingers tightened around the goblet as he stared at his reflection in the wine, feeling the words pierce him like an arrow to the gut. He should have known that they would have communicated with one another before…but having included the dwarves, and not even allowing his consent in the matter?

He had been further humiliated when Aínwar glared up at him with those defiant eyes, as if to say: I told you so.

Who did she think she was, commanding him with such a look in his kingdom? He would have to humble her…and quickly, he thought. Food, shelter, and guidance. They wanted him to care for her like one of his own, like a helpless little girl — not the clever and manipulative creature she clearly was.

Thranduil heard the oaken doors to his quarters opening…and then, her familiar voice echoed through the stillness.

"This all belongs to the king?"

"Yes, these are his private quarters," came Elyón's response. Their footsteps slowed. "That corridor leads to his personal baths. There's his study, and right over there goes to the balcony. He loves the stars, so you'll often find him there." She sighed tenderly. "Once, these rooms were filled with family, but…things are quiet now. They have been for many centuries. Legolas spends much of his time on border patrol and seldom returns. Ah, this will be your room — right across from the king's."

There was an awkward pause. "I'll sleep so close to him?"

"He insisted, my lady."

Thranduil scoffed, about making himself plainly visible right then — but, interestingly enough, Aínwar had the decency to correct Elyón herself: "Oh, I'm no lady. Only a guest."

"A guest who stays in the king's quarters," Elyón said pointedly.

"Yes, well…I had no say in that."

Thranduil leaned against the doorway of his study, goblet in hand. Having just noticed his presence, Aínwar looked up at him with an unreadable expression; she seemed small and strikingly out of place in his halls, surrounded by such regality while still dressed in her prisoner's gown. But — just from the manner in which she held her back straight…how she lifted her chin when she saw him — he had the compelling thought that her clothing was the most ill-suiting factor in the equation, and that perhaps she would not look so improper in robes of royalty, after all.

Witch, he thought sourly. He could not think of any other reason for having acknowledged that insane notion. "You've not been shown the bathhouse, yet?"

The muscles in her neck tensed. "I wanted to rest. I haven't had a proper bed since leaving home."

"So you had proper beds in the waste then."

"Better than what you provide your prisoners," Aínwar retorted.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. "Leave us, Elyón."

Elyón fleetly glanced between the two, opening her mouth to interfere…but thought better of it. With a hasty bow, she handed Aínwar the towels she had been holding and scurried away. Thranduil sipped his wine until he heard the giant doors shut behind her — and thereupon he realized it was the first time he had been alone with Aínwar, and the closest he had been in proximity.

At such close range, he absolutely towered over her — and he had hoped, so genuinely — that she would set her eyes elsewhere. That she would tuck that chin and make this easier for him. But she kept her jaw locked and her gaze fierce, burning with contemptuous fire…and still quiveringly clutched her towels, like a scared rabbit with nowhere to hide.

"Let me make one thing clear, Firekeeper," said Thranduil. He set his wine down on the nearest table. "You will sleep on a bed fit for a queen, because I allow it. You will have your share of food and drink, because I allow it. You may yet again see your precious waste, because I allow it. You might be a guest of Mirkwood, but have no doubt that you're still, indeed, a prisoner."

"Not for as long as I have the stars in my eyes," she said. "I will be home soon. I will dream of it, under these trees, locked away in this cage of leaves and thorns."

"You call it a cage," Thranduil snapped, "and yet it would be most applauded if you left through the very door you entered!"

"I cannot…for if I leave now, there will be no home to return to." She looked away." Not for long."

She stared softly at her surroundings. Reaching out, she touched the polished door, captivated by the designs in the wood; then her hand swayed over the frame and the walls around it, where carvings told the tales of elven legends. For one brief moment, Thranduil was mesmerized by her gentle disposition towards the stories she must have never known. The lamps cast a warm glow upon her face; in her eyes, he saw longing and genuine sadness, and enough of it that it caught him rather off-guard.

"Where do you come from, my lord?"

"I've lived many a place," he said shortly.

"But if I said to think of home, and you were to close your eyes, and dream of it…what would come to mind?"

Thranduil hesitated to respond...then found himself utterly confounded to be answering her: "Doriath, the mightiest of all woodland realms," he said, "where the trees stood like obelisks of emerald and touched the sun. I climbed them with my father, and at their peaks I saw the sky closer than ever before."

He looked to the wall, exactly where her hand had rested atop a carving of a magnificent forest; he found himself hypnotized, like he was a child of Doriath once again. He could almost smell the air of the deep wood — wonderfully dense, like upturned earth and forgotten magic.

"Doriath was…" he began. "It was in Beleriand. It sunk when I was just a boy."

"By the Black," Aínwar said with a nod. She stared at the wall, looking frail. "I would give anything to return to the Dùn Ga'thuum. I miss the aurora. I miss the cold frost upon my skin, and the quietness of my cave, from where I could hear the symphony of dragons' wings all night. It was beautiful. I am sure Doriath was beautiful too…and I am confident that, given the chance, you would have done what you could to save it."

At the time, Thranduil had been far too young to comprehend all of the politics between elves and dwarves, and how such a tumultuous relationship could lead to Doriath's ruin. The wondrous city had been abandoned long before the War of Wrath had devastated the surrounding lands; even so, as an adolescent having fled with his father to Middle Earth, he had one day dreamed of returning home and restoring it to its original grandeur.

Now, that dream was no more, and a resentment as old as the First Age was resurfacing in his heart.

"How can you stand there as one of them," he said bitterly, "well-wishing for a home that your kind burnt?"

Aínwar whipped around, cheeks flushed in that telltale way he had already learned so well. "I descend from the onedragon who fought for your kind! Who fought for you. They committed to — and have since then cultivated — years of peace. You think that dragons wouldn't have come down if not for that pledge? There exist many. Far too many for the folk of Middle Earth to ever stand a chance, and they would've devastated your land over and over, many times, if that's what they truly wanted. They would've sent fire and death…and yet it is I, who came alone and my hands behind my back."

"Ready to corrupt the minds of my kingdom, no doubt."

"No more than your acts of selfishness have," Aínwar retaliated. "I came here to retrieve my dragon from Erebor, and I will get into that mountain…with or without your help!"

She turned with a dramatic air of finality, but Thranduil snatched her wrist and trapped her against the door. She resisted him with a suppressed cry, and she was strong…but not enough. Too young and conditionally immortal. For a dark moment, he knew with certainty that he had revealed all of her evil intentions, and he intended to expose all of her secrets then and there.

"You know of what lies in the mountain," said Thranduil.

"I know nothing."

"You're lying."

"I know only of one dragon!" Her eyes were averted. "And a hundred thousand stones of the rainbow, just like any other."

Thranduil tightened his grip, clenching her wrist until she struggled for release. "You must feel so high and mighty having deceived the council with your acts of naivety," he hissed, "but I never mistook you for a fool. A liar, perhaps, but never a fool. An 'outsider' from beyond the Ered Mithrin. Working with the dwarves, then? Tell me what you truly seek in the city of the dead. Call it by its name, the—"

The Arkenstone.

"—the white gems of Lasgalen!" Aínwar said furiously. "Now, release me, for that's all I know!"

Thranduil felt her pulse, delicate like a hummingbird's wings, fluttering beneath his grip. He surrendered her and stepped back, his eyes dilating with the swift passing of shock and anger.

"How do you know about the necklace?" he demanded. "I command you tell me."

"Fear not," she said quietly, caressing her wrist. "I have no intention of taking something so important to you…I told you that I came for the dragon, and nothing more."

She matched his glare once again, her perceptive eyes covering everything from his crown to his boots, and he had the impression that she could see all there was to him: the child he used to be, the son, or the father. The lover. The many roles from his past he had long forgotten or purposely abandoned, and all with astonishing clarity.

Her severe expression softened, almost sympathizingly.

"These are the things I commit to memory when I look in the face of a stranger," she said. "What they've done in love. The look I saw in your eyes upon hearing of the gems, of being reminded why you had them crafted in the first place — it…it quite suits you."

Then she went into her room and slammed the door shut.

x

Aínwar allowed herself one breathless moment to evaluate her bedroom.

It was compact and only equipped with a dresser, a bureau, a mirror, and a lavishly decorated bed, far larger than the one at home. All of the furnishings were constructed with dark, polished wood, and the room must have built into the side of a tree — the walls were a sophisticated tangle of well-woven branches, through which gentle rays of sunshine managed to stream, dappling the floor with freckles of sparkling light.

Though she could not see anything beyond the branches, she could hear the faint sound of activity outside…wherever that was…and, thus, the air remained cool and fresh. But she was most relieved to know she would be sleeping to the tranquil sounds of nighttime, and not the horrible screams which often echoed through the dungeons below.

It was more than — leagues above — what she expected, or could have ever asked for.

And there, where she hadn't seen it before…a crackling fire, secured within an iron container, protected by a grated lid.

Releasing her breath at last, she pressed her back up against the door and slid down to the floor, painfully hyperaware of Thranduil's presence behind her.

How can you stand there as one of them, well-wishing for a home that your kind burnt?

Perhaps he was right, that she had spoken out of line and far too hastily to defend the dragons, knowing the full extent of destruction they had caused. But to assume all dragons were like that…they aren't, she thought angrily, but… She knew in her heart that he had only seen the worst: the Black, the Cold Drakes, Smaug, and maybe even more that had preceded her time in Ages past.

Suddenly, her heart ached with compassion.

Her hands were trembling. She clutched one with the other, finding the skin to be alarmingly cold; pathetically, she crawled over to the fire, relishing the warmth and security it provided. Their impassioned exchange of words repeated again and again in her mind, and she could still feel his touch on her wrist, blisteringly hot. She reimagined his fingers, long and elegant, which had wrapped so effortlessly around her — this, she fantasized until her cheeks turned red from shame.

The bed, with its luscious, silken sheets, desperately called to her. Aínwar wished to bury herself in the covers all day and night, to find a small sliver of the solitude she had once afforded so freely; and perhaps she could cry, to allow the great waves of emotion to crash over her. She was overwhelmingly confused. And she wanted to go home. Her courage had guided her through the Ered Mithrin, into the dungeons of Mirkwood, and before an established council of Middle Earth — all the way to this bedroom. Now she felt completely validated in her tears.

But she was hungry, and she needed a bath. She dared not tarnish the covers until the filth and grime was scrubbed from her skin.

Maybe it wasn't my looks, she thought lamely, but my smell that gave offense to the king.

Sighing, she put away what very few possessions she had on her person: the dagger, which Tauriel had managed to retrieve for her; and the gold tunic she had arrived in, soiled, but better than the gown she currently wore.

Things weren't much different than before. She had never owned much — quite unlike the king, who had much to show for his royalty: his splendidly furnished living quarters, the shimmering robes upon his back, the crown interweaved with spring leaves. So far, she could tell that she liked collecting objects and, judging by the gold goblet in his hand, that he fancied his drink.

But, she acknowledged with a thrill, she did have a fire.

He'd been listening, after all.

Aínwar stayed in front of the fire, unmoving, and never uncovering it for fear of spilling even a single ember in this wooden realm. For hours, she wondered how she would pass her time now, for Oakenshield's arrival was still a distant possibility, completely in the hands of an ever whimsical future. There were no plants to forage, and nobody who needed the snow dusted from their scales.

Just as the bright sunlight had faded into a twilight purple, a knock sounded at the door. Thranduil's personal maid, Elyón, who had been so kind and welcoming to her, gently announced: "The captain of the guard is here. She requests to show you to dinner." There was a brief pause. "I also have clothes that you may find more suitable."

"Y-you can come in."

Elyón first stuck her petite face through the crack in the door, as if double checking that Aínwar was decent; then she came in fully, her arms weighed down by a collection of towels, sheets, and clothes. She eyed Zenta'ganna's soiled tunic, offended.

"I'll wash those myself," she said critically, handing the pile to Aínwar. "Here."

Aínwar sorted through the fabrics and revealed a gown, the length of which tumbled to the floor in a velvet sheet of jade green. She loved her own clothes and had taken such good care of them, but after so many years, even Zenta'ganna's tunic had wearied. The gown she beheld was far nicer than any fabric she had ever touched, and horribly inefficient between its trailing skirt and flowing sleeves…at least on someone with as little grace as her.

Elyón folded the gold tunic, an act Aínwar watched with skittish nerves. "Take…take good care of those," she said weakly.

The elven maid smirked. "I wash the king's own robes," she said, obviously proud, "and he trusts the job to no one else. I'll treat them with the utmost respect, my lady." She quickly interjected when Aínwar meant to protest. "And I know you may not like it," she said with an air of decisiveness, "but that's what I shall call you. I haven't seen Thranduil so far out of his element since the prince was born. He doesn't know where to turn or what to say, bumbling about like some sort of lovesick adolescent. It's refreshing. And, quite frankly, I believe I prefer him this way. We all do. So you shall be Lady Aínwar, who unravels the very thread of kingship, and for that you have our sincere gratitude."

Aínwar only stared, taken aback, and unsure how to respond.

"Just thinking aloud," Elyón added with a smile. She touched Zenta'ganna's dress. "This is beautiful….I've never seen such exotic patternwork, especially here, along the collar… And you do look most striking in gold. I'll have the seamstress make you something of a similar hue."

The tunic was sullied and tattered, but…

"Would — would it possible for her to create a new dress with this fabric?" Aínwar asked, not daring to hope. She hadn't acknowledged its quality or unique stitching since she first time she donned it at thirty years old, and now, seeing that it may leave her forever, she was wishing for all that time back. "It's been in my family for many generations, and is very important to me."

Elyón smiled again. "Don't worry. I have no doubt it can be done."

Aínwar sighed with relief, returning her attention to the dress. It would do until then. She shimmied into it, roused by how the supple fabric hugged her figure in a manner that would be plain inappropriate for the waste. Regardless, she felt queenly, and seeing herself in something befitting regal feasts and coronation ceremonies was empowering…in a strange and unfamiliar sort of way. While not as outright dazzling as the gold, the green was tastefully subtle and suited her dark skin.

"Spectacular!" exclaimed Elyón. "The king will be most pleased."

Aínwar turned about in the mirror, secretly admiring how the fabric swirled about her ankles. If she looked at herself below the neckline, excluding the horns and the scales, of course…she could almost be convinced that she was a princess of legend.

In her foolish adolescence, she had often wondered if she could ever be poised enough to saunter about a palace, upon the arms of a noble gentleman and all her whimsies attended to. But these fantasies had been games, and nothing more — and now that she did indeed sleep in the halls of kings and wore the gowns of queens, some sad part of her still felt like she was playing make-believe…and that, like a game, this was a huge waste of time.

"Well, it is certainly less 'savage witch,' than before," she said, deadpan. "He's totally convinced that I'm here to steal away his men and corrupt their susceptible hearts."

"If that was his main concern, he should've picked an uglier dress!" Elyón laughed at Aínwar's blushing. "Come now. You must be hungry, and we've kept Tauriel waiting long enough."

She guided Aínwar to the front doors, speaking gaily of her quotidian duties and the length of her service to Thranduil. And when she relinquished her to Tauriel, they parted ways with promises to see each other later; Aínwar, somehow, felt much lighter after their upbeat conversation and was extraordinarily grateful for the few occasions of kindness she had experienced.

"You needn't remember much," Tauriel explained as they navigated the caverns together. "Just remember these stairs here…they go into the grand hall, and then those doors on the left — oh, well, I suppose you wouldn't have seen it yet."

"I had a bag over my head, courtesy of Mirkwood's courageous captain of the guard."

They descended into the grand hall, what looked to be a platform surrounded by chasms on all sides rather than a "hall," a massive hub of activity in which many elves had apparently gathered for social purposes. Aínwar saw towering doors at which guards were subserviently posted, defending what she assumed to be the main entrance, and many arched bridges leading to other places. From the misty depths of the chasms, she could hear the sound of water, and faintly wondered how far into the ground this palace was built.

"That bridge there leads to our hall of festivities," Tauriel said, pointing. "You'll love elven merrymaking, especially the dancing. Oh, and that way is the library and the planetarium. Take those stairs and you'll find some of our wealthier districts, and from those platforms, you can reach the throne room…"

She explained it all. Aínwar did her very best to memorize everything, but she was quite overwhelmed. She had never seen such a dense gathering of bodies in one place; as she walked behind Tauriel, who seemed entirely unconcerned by all of the stares, she felt a sense of childlike stage fright overtake her, one that she hadn't felt even when being paraded about in a prisoner's gown with her hands bound behind her back.

The elves stepped aside to forge them a path, and as they wove between the crowd, Aínwar noticed that the whispers had died and their unwelcome touches withheld. The elves only inquisitively gazed upon her, as if she were a stranger whom they wanted to meet and not some animal to be prodded and poked at. It was even more disconcerting than before, when their acrimony had been so plain on their faces, for now she could not read their elusive expressions.

"This is the dining hall," said Tauriel, her hand gesturing towards the platform.

A wide bridge led to a platform filled with much laughter and mirth. Groups of elves were seated at long tables, upon which colorful shapes were decorated…and Aínwar realized that the shapes were, in fact, food. Berries and spindly leaves and all sorts of other concoctions she had never seen; and some were baked and steaming, and others were ate fresh and raw. Some elves leaned in close, talking; others had their heads tilted back with drinks; and some were quietly eating alone, eyes on an open book.

They chose a mostly empty table.

"Sit here," Tauriel encouraged. "I'll get our food and drink."

Aínwar had no idea what to do. She put her hands in her lap, suddenly feeling silly in her dress, for thinking she could have played pretend-elf. Make-believe was fun and harmless in the privacy of her bedroom, but now with everyone's stares fixated on her, she felt the primal impulse to strip it all and run. Her heart thrashed about in her chest, counting the seconds to Tauriel's return so that she may have a raft to cling to.

Courage, Firekeeper, she reminded herself, forcing her breath to steady. What are a few gossipy elves compared to a firedrake?

Honestly, she would've rather dealt with the dragons.

A familiar voice spoke just behind her: "I've come to offer my apologies."

She whirled around, more on edge than she had realized. The blue-eyed elf who had held a sword to her throat stood there with two drinks in hand. Now that he was illuminated by light, she could see how handsome he was, with long and pointed features and a high, dignified hairline, from where his pale copper hair was braided back.

"Darothil," she said, at which he looked pleasantly surprised. "If you've come to offer that drink in exchange for almost slitting my throat, then it'd better be strong."

He suddenly grinned, an expression far more severe than the disdain he had shown her before. "You almost make me regret threatening to take your head," he remarked, tilting his head. "You weren't quite as funny in the Wilderland."

"One does not talk so much when they are on their knees."

"No, not in my experience," Darothil said, his smile spreading mischievously. He set the drinks on the table and sat. "In all seriousness, I did come to say I'm sorry. Mirkwood has had increased numbers in orc-raids, especially along the northwestern borders. We'd just come by a small group of them less than a half-day's travel to the east. I acted rashly and impulsively."

"You acted out of responsibility," Aínwar corrected.

Darothil seriously considered this. "Well, yes, I suppose you're right." Then the seriousness on his face was gone, as fast as it had come, and replaced by another grin. "You see that elf over there, with the blond hair? Wait, wait, don't look yet, lest he notice. That's Eltarluin, my cousin. You almost took his head. He looks so mad, hah!"

"You better not be up to your naughty games, Darothil," said Tauriel sternly, who had just arrived with their food. She rolled her eyes at the mugs of alcohol on the table. "And you better not be pouring ale down her throat, either! Aínwar, you should start practicing, 'I have no idea where Darothil is or what he's up to, my lord' in the mirror three times a day; it'll be most useful, for where his laughter rings, trouble is afoot."

Aínwar delicately sipped the ale and was startled by the heat that rolled over her throat.

"Oh, but my captain…we all know that it was Eltarluin who meddled with my fletchings right before the archery tournament."

"And it was you who poured tar into his scabbard so that he couldn't draw his sword," Tauriel pointed out, popping a berry into her mouth.

"You must not remember how he dunked all of my socks into water before I had to take a month-long post at the western border!"

"I do recall, actually — for that was, in fact, my doing."

Aínwar looked down at her plate, her stomach grumbling. Even the wild hares she had caught in the waste, as small as they were, nourished her better than the sorry excuse for food they had provided her in the dungeons. When she was lucky, Tarlaeth would bring her deer, and the meat was frozen and lasted for the whole year. But the elves clearly had plant-based diets, and she was more accustomed to foraging for roots anyway.

Comparatively, what was presented to her on the plate was a feast for kings: vegetables and fruits of rich colors. She sifted through her options, not from pickiness but sheer curiosity; deciding on a fat red berry, she experimentally bit into the soft skin. A rush of sweet, tangy flavor filled her mouth, and she openly savored the rest, only to realize that Tauriel and Darothil had been watching her the whole time.

"It's amazing," she said, reaching for another.

"Pay up, cousin!" Darothil shouted across three tables, and the other elf rolled his eyes and launched forth a pouch of jingling coins. For a moment, there was a befuddling and very bizarre toss-about of these pouches. "Some of us had taken bets on whether or not you preferred the taste of elven flesh. Glad to see that you are fond of berries."

Aínwar was disgusted but could not help laughing. "I am from the waste…perhaps I only have yet to taste it!"

"See? She does have a sense of humor."

"And best we don't let you cultivate it!" Tauriel said, scowling.

"If you are to garner a taste then, please let it be my cousin," Darothil said. "He was bested by your little dagger, after all — I think he should be the first to go."

"He didn't expect me to retaliate," Aínwar pointed out, openly attacking her meal now. "I merely had the element of surprise, when he mistakenly thought he had it all to himself."

"I wonder how you would fair in a one-on-one, then?"

"If a dragon should ever learn to wield a sword, then you'll all be in trouble!" Aínwar laughed. "I'm able enough to defend myself, and I'm resistant to fire. That's about all. I'm most sorry you have nothing to take back to your friends. I'm special in name and appearance, and nothing more."

"We'll change that," Darothil said conclusively. "Middle Earth is a dangerous place, little dragon. You must meet me in the training room sometime, and I'll show you the way of a blade, so that you might deal with any threats should the king's ever watchful eye leave you."

Tauriel slightly inclined her head. "That seems unlikely, no?"

Aínwar looked to where she pointed with her eyes. Thranduil stood at the crest of the bridge, speaking with a small group of elves.

Just hours before, he had completely unraveled before her; but since then, he had reconstructed his unshakable exterior, and now there existed no evidence that he had ever lost his bearings. He had changed into heavier robes of silver and mahogany, the luster of which glittered in the light of the lanterns; so that when he turned to face another, she had the subliminal thought that he looked like a painting in motion, like all orbited his center of gravity.

Though there was a great distance between them, his eyes sidled over to meet hers… — all at once, she felt the weight of the entire sky pressing down onto her. The noise of the dining hall descended into languid silence, until she heard the sound of her own beating heart. There was a slight twitch of his lips, as if he were perfectly aware of having ensnared her in such a nebulous dreamstate.

For the rest of dinner, even after Thranduil left, she surfed over the motions: meeting Eltarluin, who had eventually been coaxed into joining their table; introducing herself to the other members of the guard; finishing her plate and having seconds; laughing at Darothil's jokes, which grew increasingly funnier the more he drank — all of this late into the evening, long after the dining hall had emptied and the last of the lingerers had floated up the bridge to say their goodnights in the grand hall.

And she felt like she was floating herself. With her belly full, the delight of having met new friends, and knowing that she had a bath and comfortable bed awaiting her, she had found a new sense of optimism.

Their journey to the bathhouse was paused by another woman who requested Tauriel's attention; she excused herself, and Aínwar was left to her own devices for a moment. She let her eyes roam over the ceiling and saw, through the gaps in the branches so expertly woven, faint traces of white starlight.

Her heart lurched.

So close…and yet so far.

Gut-wrenchingly moved, she tore her gaze away from what she saw but could not have…and, as she did, her eyes instead caught a statue she had not yet seen; it was nestled in the corner, quiet and unobtrusive, but exuding a powerful force that reeled her in. As she neared the statue, she sat that it was in the image of a very beautiful woman, whose long hair was crowned with loose greenery, her eyes serenely closed.

Aínwar did not have to guess who it was.

She stood in solemn respect of the Elvenqueen, her soul stilling with prayer.

x

Thranduil never strolled about at the twilight hour. He was most often found in his study, appreciating freshly opened Dorwinion and ruminating on the events of his day. This he had attempted — and failed — to do already. After Aínwar had nearly taken his nose off with her bedroom door, he had retreated, fuming but secretly affected, back to the study. He had succeeded in writing a distracted letter here and there, and even reorganized a few of his books, which hadn't needed rearranging whatsoever…and once he had heard Elyón escorting her outside, he thought he might finally have some privacy.

And how mistaken he was, for in the silence and solitude, Aínwar had invaded his thoughts even more persistently. Giving up, he wondered if a turn about his halls would divert his attentions at last.

The grand hall always stirred with activity after dinner: satiated elves were returning to their posts or retiring to their beds, and there were always stragglers who remained late into the night, their tittering laughter echoing throughout the caverns. Those who had not seen him in a while approached with plenty of insipid but entertaining conversation ("Oh, did you hear so-and-so are to be wed soon, my king?" and "Soon we are to be preparing for so-and-so's begetting day!"), and he was finding himself having a good time.

Then as he turned his head upon a flash of green…he saw her, clad in the colors of a summer forest, staring up with innocent eyes at the statue of his wife — a sturdy sapling amongst the sea of wispy elves around her. For a moment suspended in time, she really did seem high-born, with the way her dress hung off of her elegant shoulders and by the grace of her slender hands, clasped at her bosom like she was deep in dreamlike reverence.

There was something incredibly alluring about the whole picture. Seemingly in a dreamlike state himself, he excused himself from the conversation and eased into Aínwar's space…she glanced up at him with eyes like big golden suns, and back to his darling Êlúriel and her countenance of stone.

"She's beautiful," she said, blinking slowly.

Thranduil nodded, letting his own gaze linger on his wife and somehow, it felt like the first time again. He could still remember pale hair flowing over her white skin, like a quiet winter before sunrise, so still and exquisitely dignified in all manners of life. Having the privilege to see the white gems upon her swan-like neck would have been a near-celestial experience…alas, it was not meant to be.

"She was," was all he could say.

"Is."

Thranduil awaited her explanation, but she offered none. Not until he prompted her with: "Care to explain the meaning behind your irritatingly impertinent smile, Firekeeper?"

To his surprise, her smile only widened. She covered a laugh with her hand. "I'm only smiling because, well—" She looked meaningfully at him. "—there it is again. That look in your eyes. The one I mentioned earlier."

During her pause, her fingers began playing with an imaginary jewel at her neck. Missing something she had worn before, perhaps? And — there — just as he had studied like a book… her teeth gently biting into her lower lip. She was buried by thought, positively drowning in it, and somehow, he couldn't imagine what. Not even a little.

"I've met a few elves now," she said. "It's been highly suggested to me that you're a man of no love. That you're severe and unforgiving in your ways. This, I might agree with. I knew it the moment I entered your throne room. But I cannot agree that you lack love as much as the others say you do, for everything I am seeing completely contradicts that idea."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"I told you, silly king," Aínwar said. "The look."

Silly, she called him?

Just as he meant to speak, no doubt with more venom than her lighthearted teasing deserved, she interrupted with, "I'm sorry for my behavior earlier. I admit that I purposely baited you with talk of the white gems. I was frustrated, and I was urging a reaction from you. I feel that I used your pain to extort you. I…I humbly ask for your forgiveness."

Few times had Thranduil been caught so off-guard. He fixed his eyes on the statue, fingers pressing into his palms behind his back, and turned over the apology — over and over, trying to find fault. Trying to find any shred of dishonesty or maliciousness, so that he may turn it against her in the end…and Thranduil could not. He only realized that he was doing exactly what he suspected she would, and that it was a behavior festered within fear. But the woman who stood there, trembling, looked so many things at once — lost, determined, hopeful, and so afraid herself — that he could not bear to shudder before her.

Sighing, he said, "I'm sorry, too."

Aínwar nodded. "Perhaps we should learn to tolerate one another," she suggested lightheartedly, "if I'm to be here for a few years. I'll learn. Whatever I can do to cause less trouble, I implore you tell me. Especially in your living quarters. Elyón did make me promise not to use your bath."

Thranduil felt oddly amused. "Two years is a short time to learn the ways of the elves."

"Then I shall not waste a moment."

There was an extra odd comfortability in the silence they shared; after a moment, Thranduil might have totally forgotten that she was there, and she too had no compulsion to revive the dead conversation. The two of them stood there, nearly shoulder to shoulder, experiencing an entirely present moment.

"Thranduil, I…" she began. "The gems of Lasgalen…when I am permitted to enter the Lonely Mountain, I — I intend to find them. I'll bring them back. Then perhaps you can remove these—" She brushed her hand along the greenery adorning Êlúriel's shoulders. "—and give her the jewels she deserves."

He must have taken too long to respond, because suddenly Tauriel was in their atmosphere. The abrupt change was like lightning to his field, like a wave of cold wind on a summer's day, the pull of gravity upon waking from a good night's dream.

"My lord," said Tauriel, bowing, mostly unaware of the disturbance she had caused. "I was just escorting Aínwar to the bathhouse. If we could—"

"—Of course," said Thranduil with an incline of his head. "Ensure that she's accompanied to my quarters afterward. Elyón will receive her at the front doors."

"Yes, my lord."

Aínwar opened her mouth, just barely, and still he caught the flutter of her lips…but she bridled her words, perhaps saving them for another time. He watched as she hurried after Tauriel and, having not looked back once, she turned the corner.

Only then did Thranduil feel the restoration of balance in the air around him.

x

Aínwar experimentally lowered her foot into the bath; the heat started as a tingle in her toes, then spread deliciously up her body as she slowly submerged herself. The aromatic steam rose up, and with a barely repressed groan, she sunk further into the waters, feeling her muscles being rejuvenated and her sinuses cleared.

There were hot springs in the waste, but the most accessible was deep within a cave and a three day's journey from her home. The water there was rank with sulfur, and though refreshed afterward, she could never quite scrub all the filth away. Here, the surface bubbled with perfumed soap and the lather left her skin smooth and clean.

The communal baths were large enough to host hundreds, and must have been the main hub for female gossip, for there echoed an unending chime of laughter as women moved about — exiting and entering the springs, some having gathered in various corners of the hall, still undressed. They tittered and touched each other, leaned in close for whispers, and caressed each other's hair lovingly. One elleth even had her head upon another's lap with her eyes closed dreamily, and another was receiving a massage to her shoulders.

Aínwar, who had never even seen another woman's body, was bewitched by the collective of feminine energy. She was finding herself wanting to be a part of it, to engage in the same level of trust, never having realized until that moment how lonely her life could be beyond the Ered Mithrin.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Tauriel asked, her red hair already soaked. "The bathhouse is open all day. I've found myself here in the early hours of the morning, when it's quiet, scraping orc filth from my face…and, no matter what, I always feel completely cleansed."

Aínwar laughed, humoring the idea of Tauriel frantically washing before anyone could see her. Though she had seen plenty of female warriors in Mirkwood, strapped with armor all the same as the men, it had become apparent how many of the women here had less physically demanding occupations. Some had unmarred hands and soft, pampered figures, or the lackadaisical air of ladies who spent their evenings reading poetry and drinking wine rather than wielding a blade.

She glanced at Tauriel, who was quietly washing her hair, her arms lean with the muscle of a soldier; at that moment, Aínwar understood that her friend was also very different from the average woman of the bathhouse…that, perhaps… — and even Aínwar had to admit that this notion was pure fantasy — that she was lonelier than she let on.

That maybe she had needed a friend too.

As she contemplated the intricacies of loneliness, her thoughts wandered to the statue of Êlúriel and how ardently Thranduil had gazed upon it. She had not lied to him: the look in his eyes when thinking of his wife was profoundly passionate, unyielding and timeless. It was exceptionally beautiful, a story she dared not disrupt…so it seemed that the closer she got to him, the further away from her grasp he drifted.

What did that mean, then? That the Duwín-ma was misleading…or downright wrong? How could she have ever relied on dreams to lay claim to someone she had never met? But, having now heard three times the exact words from her visions, she felt that all things would be unveiled with time, as cryptic as they were.

"Tauriel?" she asked. Her head felt hot, and not from the bathwater. "How many years has the king ruled alone?"

"Thousands," Tauriel responded. "Legolas was just a boy when he lost his mother. It was a devastating loss for all involved. Our queen had just recently felt the call to Valinor, but stayed to see her son ascend to the throne. She and Thranduil were to sail together. I cannot even begin to recount the tale…I wasn't yet born, and save for the statues erected in her memory, her name doesn't linger in these halls."

"And Thr… — the king — he hasn't considered taking another queen?"

"Never. No matter how many times he has been urged towards it, by friend or professional council. You might've noticed that Lord Elrond arrived here without his wife, but she has sailed and they'll be reunited soon enough." Tauriel paused her washing, hands tangled in her hair, and looked curiously at Aínwar. "You've seen it for yourself, then."

"Seen what?"

"The grief of our people when left alone by our loved ones," said Tauriel solemnly. "I didn't understand back then, but…" She temporarily faded into what must have been a difficult memory, then reappeared with abrupt clarity. "We don't experience things in the ways of other beings ephemeral — men and all other creatures, whose existences are so fleeting, so brief…they treat all things around them as if they're temporary. Love and wealth. Their own lives, sometimes. Others' lives."

Aínwar silently agreed, knowing how men could be. Based on what she had been told, at least.

"But to know love as one of us…to nurture it with the utmost care and precision, to use the tides of time to fashion a connection so boundless in its infinite potential…one cannot recover from losing that. Many elves die from grief, or never fully heal in mind and spirit. They often sail themselves, choosing to leave the memories behind. And yet, our king remains in Middle Earth, united with a ghost, and by the chains of enduring love alone."

Your foolhardy bravery might save Middle Earth…but I am beginning to think that your heart might be what saves our king, she had said.

But how?

How could she have uttered such a thing so nonchalantly, knowing that Thranduil might never change?

"Captain," a stranger's voice said admonishingly, "such serious talk for the bathhouse. You know I must be a part of it!"

"Nüllewen," said Tauriel. She was smiling, but even Aínwar could sense the hardness edging her voice — the same tone she had heard the night they met in the Wilderland, finespun but unmistakably cutthroat. "Join us. We'll make room."

The honey-blonde elf, whom Aínwar hadn't noticed before, was perched at the edge of the bath soaking her legs; meanwhile, her previous company of two other women were engaged in what was clearly a closed conversation. She scooted closer to Aínwar and Tauriel, her smile wide but rigidly wound, never reaching the light of her eyes.

"I insist you introduce us to our new guest," she said. Then, without awaiting Tauriel's response, she turned to Aínwar and liltingly continued, "You are, without a doubt, the most stimulating thing to happen to Mirkwood in the last millennia. Once I heard that our king took you in — and into his own chambers… — I simply had to see you for myself."

Stimulating? Aínwar thought, not sure what to make of that.

Her neckline tensed in the same way as it did when speaking to Thranduil…or one of her most cunning dragons, like she was handling a little red-hot ember. Something that could escalate beyond control if she allowed it.

"I'm nothing worthy of gossip" she said, squaring her shoulders. She felt obligated to squash any and all rumors, especially now that she had been caught asking about his personal affairs. "The king was concerned that I would be a liability if housed anywhere else. I sleep beneath his nose and am quarantined to Mirkwood, only so he can ensure I stay away from trouble."

"And are you prone to trouble?"

Aínwar's lips pulled into a thin smile. "Depends on the sort."

"I admit that I'm trouble myself," Nüllewen said. "I'm a terrible gossip. I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Our king and his lack of a wife, you see, is a popular topic here in the bathhouse. But the women who frequent here are more hopeful than our famous captain of the guard."

Tauriel straightened too. "I am hopeful," she said, "but it's a feeling reserved for someone who would deserve it…certainly not some vapid plaything who only pursues the crown and not his heart. A queen of Mirkwood must rival — no,succeed — our lord in diplomacy, courage, and purpose."

Nüllewen's brows twitched upward. "And you know exactly what he needs?"

"Perhaps not," said Tauriel, reddening. "But I would know it if she and I crossed paths."

"What I know is that the king has desires," Nüllewen said with a penetrating smile, "like any man, and that he seems perfectly content to rule without a queen for as long as these desires are fulfilled and his perpetual hunger satiated. He has his choice of women, like a feast laid before him…yet, after all these years, he formally courts no one. We long ago gave up the game of, 'Who Shall be Queen?' Now, we play for his bed, and that is something we can all share. It's more fun this way."

Aínwar was beginning to think that elven interrelations weren't as harmonious as she'd presumed.

"Speaking of the king's needs…" Nüllewen sighed dramatically. "I think it's time I go now. It was lovely to meet you, Firekeeper, and I'm most sorry that our first impressions were settled in the bathhouse. Talk operates differently here. I think it must be the steam, how the heat makes our heads so dizzy and our mouths loose…"

"Your mouth isn't the only thing that's come loose," Tauriel muttered quietly.

Heat gathered in the pit of Aínwar's stomach, having just realized exactly where — to whom — she was going. It was unsurprising, really, for someone so beautifully proportioned even to the most minute details.

For a depressing moment, she had to admit to herself, once again, that the visions were wrong. All wrong. She sank further into the water, watching as his blue-eyes faded from her memory…like how the waves of the ocean recede with the tides, the totality of which controlled by a celestial importance far greater than her own gravity.

"You've been in a mighty and honorable battle to save him." Nüllewen tilted her head with mock innocence. She was addressing Tauriel, but her sultry hazel eyes were locked on Aínwar. "We all know. We've seen the benefits of your efforts, but is it truly your duty, captain? Should you not focus your attention on where it matters?"

"If we only cared for the things assigned to us," Tauriel said, her own eyes cold and frosty in comparison, "a life of love would be truly forsaken."

And just like that, the ocean stilled and Aínwar emerged at the surface of the water, whereupon the crystal moonlight illuminated the darkness. She saw, plain as day, how Tauriel loved Thranduil. Not in the manner Nüllewen or even Legolas must have loved him, but in a language of her own.

She wondered if she might come to love him in her own way too, with a magic only she — they — could create. She could sense it, in the same way she could read the stars or how she could smell the snow long before it ever clouded over the mountains. She felt it. Invisible, yes, but etched in her bones, scorching the space between them.

An alchemy fabricated by them alone.

TBC