Gift of the Maia

TA 2940, June 22nd.

"My lord," said Althidion, "you have a guest awaiting you in the throne room."

"Oh, for Valar's sake—"

"He would not be persuaded to leave, my lord."

And Thranduil had barely opened his front doors too, thinking his morning might be a peaceful one at last. He glared at the guard who, as usual, only had an irritatingly entertained grin in response.

"And who, might I ask, pay me such a welcome visit so early in the morning? Actually, don't. I will have less time to utter curses upon their name this way." Thranduil fixed the cuffs of his wrists, now thinking he should not have rushed as much as he had; he mourned the extra hour he could have spent in the baths. "Elyón, has Aínwar already left her room for the day?"

"Yes, my lord — she's gone to the garden again," she responded, making herself present as quickly as ever. She began adjusting the fabric for him. "Here, allow me."

"For as much as she loves the cold, she certainly spends a lot of time in the sun," he muttered, letting his sleeves be jostled around by her sturdy handling. "If she ever returns to the north, she might freeze to death. I have the distinct feeling that she's somehow involved. If you could…"

"Of course, my lord."

"Accompany me to the grand hall first."

He took off towards the stairs, listening for Elyón's scattered footsteps behind him. "I'm no longer seeing her in the evenings," he said. "Where has she been spending her time recently?"

"Always the garden," she said, "from sunrise until high moonlight. Tauriel and Darothil have been at the border for three days now, and when she's left alone, to the garden she goes. You know how it's elevated high in the trees, and there's a wide space between the branches towards the north…through there, she can see the Ered Mithrin." She suppressed her laughter. "I've been washing so much flower pollen from her skirts."

No wonder.

"And she stays there alone?"

"Nobody knows of its location, and those who do never walk past the entrance. They're afraid of defiling the Elvenqueen's sacred space. But Lady Aínwar…she loves it. Especially the elanor, the one that has grown from Galadriel's gift to your wife." She looked briefly worried. "You — you wouldn't request she leave, would you?"

Quite the contrary. Thranduil thought it was bizarrely endearing, how Aínwar had 'discovered' his wife's garden and claimed it as her own.

"No," he said. "No, she can stay. But I suggest you refrain from disclosing that I allowed her this privilege. She'll enjoy it most if she thinks it's hers alone. Now go."

"Yes, my lord," Elyón said at once. She half-turned, with the sort of haste only a personal maid to the king could achieve. There was a radiant smile on her face. "I won't say a word. But you know...I've noticed your absence from the garden ever since she started going. I was digging you out every half hour once. You love it there."

Thranduil arched a brow. "Your point?"

"Well, why not go too?" She raised her own eyebrows mockingly. "What? Just because she occupies that space doesn't mean you can't share it. Actually, I think you would be received most agreeably."

"Come now, Elyón. Althidion is easily replaceable, but I would deeply regret ever having to find someone else to deal with my nasty habits."

"Valar knows how grumpy you are in the mornings," she said, rolling her eyes. Then she gave him an equally playful, "Yes, my lord" before she actually did go.

Thranduil wasted no time in heading to the throne room himself. The doors were opened wide for him far before he ever turned the corner, and he was ushered in…ultimately let down by the sight of a pointy, grey hat.

"Mithrandir," he said with a sharp inhale through the nose. He inclined his head, using the shadow of his posture to neutralize his expression. "Pray tell, what inspired you to return so soon?"

The wizard bent forward in an untidy bow. "King Thranduil, thank you for meeting on such short notice," he said gruffly. He obviously had ridden hard; the grey hairs of his coarse beard were disheveled, and there was evidence of windburn under his wrinkled eyes. He presented a small pouch. "Lady Galadriel sends this gift for Miss Firekeeper. I wish to deliver it myself, for I must see it into her hands."

"Very well," said Thranduil. He climbed to his throne and, after making himself comfortable, he gestured to the steps with a sweep of his hand."She's already been summoned. Please, make yourself comfortable in the meantime."

"Yes, yes, I shall…"

Gandalf withdrew his pipe from his robes and loaded the bowl of the musky herb; Thranduil turned his head away, both from his lack of caring for the smoky smell and his desire to look anywhere else, as if it would save him from the fruitless conversation that was about to ensue. He listened as the old man lit the flame and dragged until his lungs filled, then blew forth a cloud with a raspy cough.

"How does she fare?" he asked after his second drag.

It'd been nearly a month since their last true exchange, when Aínwar had apologized for purposely antagonizing him, and he in return had apologized for…what, he wondered? He'd never held himself accountable. Not for imprisoning her at the lowest level of the dungeons. Not for turning away at the very sight of her. For calling her names.

Thranduil had stayed awake late for weeks, thinking that — if it weren't for him — she'd be sleeping in an orc camp, or in a moldy cell — or worse…in the ground. He had sat in his study, turning over more glasses of wine than Alîa should've allowed, finding refuge in the fact that Aínwar slept soundly in the room across from his, a feather pillow beneath her head and a fire to scare the monsters away.

But as the weeks passed, he realized that, whether he liked it or not, she had apologized and he simply hadn't. And that very fact — that she might have a sensible bone in her body — made him feel all the worse. They hardly spoke, despite meeting eyes in the grand hall or stepping to the side for passage in the narrow corridor they shared. Once, she actually touched his hand — and apologized for that too — while he stared at her, wishing she would not walk away like that.

Not from him.

So he didn't know how she was doing. Not really.

Regardless, thoughts of her filled his mind: sitting like a child in the garden she thought she had to herself, the entire measure of the moon in her eyes; laughing much too enthusiastically at Darothil's jokes, likely vulgar and horrendously inappropriate for a woman; having just come from the bathhouse, cheeks flushed from the heat. And there were many other images he could have used as a measure of her condition, but none of them could he honestly share.

Not with the wizard.

Definitely not with himself.

"She…she's doing well," he said at last.

Gandalf nodded, pleased. "Has she made any friends?"

"Unfortunately," Thranduil sighed. "Darothil and Tauriel of the guard are quite smitten with her. Anyone else in the entire kingdom would have suited her better — I fear that their love for mischief will soon sprout the seeds of more to come."

"And has she been?"

"Mischievous? The most mischievous stunts of all take the longest to be revealed. With those two at her side, I have no doubt that there are traps laid about all around us now. They are mostly harmless, thankfully…but no less aggravating."

"Surely she doesn't cause that much trouble?"

None. None at all.

And that was precisely what worried him so. From the beginning, Aínwar had dug her fingers into the dirt of his soul, seeming to already know the answers she sought; then, over time, she had retreated into herself, withdrawing, curling up like a tulip yielding to moonlight. Inexplicably, he had found himself attempting to unfurl her. He didn't like her silence. It was both suspicious and a little displeasing.

"She has conducted herself with impeccable behavior," Thranduil said stiffly.

"What does she do in her free time?"

"Sit and stare at nothing. Probably exactly what she did in the waste."

Gandalf made a sound of disapproval as he exhaled smoke into the air. "A bird imprisoned in a cage will wither its wings in vain attempts to reach for the sky…perhaps some fun would be good for her. I thought you said she had friends."

"Tauriel is captain of the guard and has responsibilities. Darothil is one of her lieutenants. They accompany her every spare moment, but they're not babysitters. The Firekeeper knows this and has made herself practically invisible in the meantime."

"I see."

"She impatiently awaits Oakenshield," Thranduil added hesitantly. He thought of how passionately Aínwar had presented her speech to the council...only to be told to sit and stay, like a dog. "I believe that, perhaps, she has lost her sense of purpose."

"They're gathering, slowly but surely," said Gandalf amidst another gravelly cough. "Activity stirs in the hills of the Ered Luin. Once old scores are settled and goodbyes said, and mining axes traded for the swords of old, there shall be a group moving in quiet force eastward — then it'll only be a matter of time. I'm sure Aínwar's spirits will be revived alongside the quest."

Thranduil thought about this for a moment. "And have you stated your intentions to him — to have her escort them to Erebor? He will not accept her willingly."

"Perhaps not, but neither did you."

Yet, here he was…wondering when she would wear gold again, asking Elyón in the middle of the night to make sure the fire was stoked, continuing the vicious cycle of convincing himself that he had been ordered to serve her…that he should at least repay the woman who had so tenderly brushed away the foliage on Êlúriel's neck, untouched for centuries.

Gandalf sighed and leaned back. "I feel I must reemphasize the secrecy of this quest, especially now that Aínwar has an active role to play. On my journey here, I intercepted a small pack of orcs, one of which spoke of the Lonely Mountain in a manner too detailed for coincidence. They're on the hunt. They smell something is happening."

"The orcs would never be so bold to pillage the mountain."

"They don't seek the treasure," said Gandalf gravely, "but the beast inside…and the wielder of an ancient sovereignty."

Thranduil's blood went cold. "They know about Aínwar."

"Perhaps not her specifically — but of her, which is how things must stay." Gandalf stood and clashed his staff against the ground, the sound ringing across the cavernous halls. "Their origins have always been murky at best. All we know is that they were united beneath Morgoth, whose most powerful instrument is controlled by, of all the people, a young woman. Sauron will seek to wield that power himself, whether she is alive or dead. It will matter not. You understand why your discretion is necessary?"

"Mithrandir, certainly you don't believe th—"

But the old wizard's face was so severe that Thranduil interrupted himself with silence, not sure where he'd been going with that accusation.

Aínwar's ominous warning, returning as echoes from the past: "I cannot see the storm, only read the signs: the change in the energy, the smell upon the wind, the darkness blackening the clouds…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."

…and turning to him with such contempt:

"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."

"But she's safe here. The evil —" Still, he could not bring himself to say the dark lord's name. It was too abstract. Too beyond the bounds of his kingdom. Too ridiculous for him to accept in his heart, for the simple act of speaking it induced terrible responsibility. "—the evil knows neither her name or face. As long as she's kept here, then…"

He trailed off into silence again, realizing how stupid he sounded, a notion which Gandalf humorously acknowledged with a tip of his hat.

"So she cannot stay," said Thranduil flatly, "and she cannot leave."

"She will stay or leave as she pleases. Even she knows this. You're the only one who has fooled yourself into thinking that she can be held prisoner, but when she deems it her time to go, she will." Gandalf ran his fingers over the grey whiskers around his mouth. "However…I think there's work to be done while she willingly remains."

"Work?"

"Dragons have occupied the waste since the First Age. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that they've fabricated their own, erm, culture of sorts. We don't know how their minds work, cannot anticipate how they might react at the crossroads of crisis — but she does. She may know something we don't. It might even be hidden inside of her, something that could help us. You, of all of us, are closest in both proximity and trust. Perhaps you can find the answer we are looking for."

Thranduil stiffened. "I will not be your agent of secrecy."

"Oh, Thranduil, nothing must be done in secret!" exclaimed Gandalf, thoroughly exasperated. "She has only been transparent with us and still you hold onto your silly misgivings! I'm only suggesting that might need some guidance. Despite what her age suggests, she's a young woman clearly scared out of her wits and obligated to a duty even she doesn't fully comprehend...but, at the end of the day, she will charge it head-on regardless. Your job shall be to extract what we need to know before she gets herself killed."

"You say that like it's certainty."

Gandalf smiled grimly. "Your second job will be to keep her from doing exactly that."

"I told the council from the beginning that I didn't want a stray," Thranduil said, "and now you saddle me with this?"

He found himself saying these words, but even he could admit to himself that the image of Aínwar's head upon the ground was wildly upsetting. She spoke of all things as the inevitable: I will do this — Once I do this — I must do this. It wasn't surprising that Gandalf saw her as disaster waiting to happen. By the fates, she was inclined to meet her end and, all the more disturbing, willing to do so…and all by the glory of 'duty.'

It was one of the things he had grown to furtively admire about her. She would have made a fine member of his army…if she were an elf.

"For the meantime, at least," said Gandalf. He emptied the ashes of his pipe into a small container, then whisked everything back into his robes. "Come what may, all ends will meet when she travels into Erebor and confers with Smaug the Terrible. This is an ill-fated plan and has been from the start. She knew this. We knew this. And she knew that we knew…but she said it anyway, and with such conviction that we were willing to at least allow her the chance. But she will fail, have no doubt about that. What matters is where she goes after the fact, which shall be determined by the actions we take now."

He did not like this at all. He loathed the idea that the council was, essentially, allowing Aínwar to traipse about, acting upon her own whims — in the middle of his kingdom, furthermore. How much chaos would she instigate before all was said and done? If — when — she failed…why not simply call the whole charade a defeat and send her back to the waste? She could return to her precious dragons and that hearth she always blathered on about. Life would move on, as it always did.

Unless…

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. Unless there was something they knew about her that he didn't.

But what?

The doors to the throne room opened; one of the guards stationed at the front bowed and said, "Aínwar Firekeeper is here at your summons, my lord."

Thranduil scrupulously watched Gandalf's expression for a change. For anything at all. Anything that would betray exactly what they were keeping from him. But he had learned over the years that wizards were frustratingly esoteric, despite what their erratic and whimsical tendencies suggested.

He withheld a displeased sigh...then donned a mask of indifference.

"Send her in."

x

"My lady?"

Startled from her thoughts, Aínwar glanced apologetically at Elyón, who had offered to escort her all the way to Thranduil for no reason at all. Who deserved a far better listener in her life. She had a concerned look on her heart-shaped face. For an elf, she was smaller and daintier than most; and even though Aínwar knew her confidence was as fierce and unshakeable as any, she could not help but feel like she had disrespected something very fragile.

She shook her head, sighing. "I'm so sorry, I was adrift in my own head again. What were you saying?"

Elyón only smiled. "Your dress should be ready by the end of the week. I went there myself this morning and saw how she reworked the old fabric. It's beautiful. I think you'll be pleased."

The dress. She had entirely forgotten. This realization was accompanied by an acute sense of guilt, for Zenta'ganna's dress wasn't the only thing she had seemed to lose amidst her thoughts on…other things. Elyón saw all of this with her obnoxiously intuitive stare, and Aínwar felt a blush creeping up her neck, realizing that the maid already knew where this conversation was headed.

"You've been spending more and more time in the garden," Elyón said. "My Lady, I know I'm only a maid, and you a distinguished guest of the king — no, no, we shall not fight about this again, so don't even bother — and I also know I cannot possibly replace the captain and her lieutenant…but I shall try, nonetheless."

Aínwar nearly embraced her then and there. "Oh, Elyón. Please believe me when I say you're more than enough. It…well…I — the king and I, we…you know we don't talk much. And to be formally summoned, after so many weeks of silence…surely you must hear how my heart is pounding from all the way over there?"

"Why don't you speak?"

Good question — one that she frequently asked herself, especially late at night with her pillow hugged to her body. Her and Thranduil's agreement to settle their differences and get along had been shoddily constructed, having little foundation to build upon; and even after the fact, she could not help but think he was waiting to be triggered, that she was only one small misstep from receiving his wrath once again. It was obvious that he still didn't trust her.

It had been easy to stay out of his way…at first. Tauriel and Darothil had all but adopted her, but they could only allocate so much free time for her sake. They were reporting for their duties more and more frequently, leaving her with plenty of time to think about how little Thranduil seemed to care for her presence.

'Distinguished guest,' she might have been, but he wasn't obligated to talk to her. She constantly had to remind herself that he had housed her so close to keep her away from trouble, that offering his spare bedroom to her was hardly an act of benevolence.

This, she knew…but still, she had been hopeful. She definitely didn't expect him to start setting aside time for her, in the same selflessly devoted way Tauriel and Darothil had — but more than a few cold words at breakfast would've been nice.

The silence, however, had offered her an abundance of knowledge she might have never noticed otherwise: that he rose at daybreak but was never fully aware until his morning tea; the routine sequencing of his clothes, and how he chose what to wear; that he often stayed up late in his study, his chin in hand, staring into the fireplace. She saw how he parted crowds, how he commanded a room with a single word…how he constantly met her gaze across a room as vast as the grand hall, his words to her succumbing to the ever present distance between them.

And finally — finally — she had gathered to courage to break that silence. She had stood before his door in the middle of the night, knowing he would be awake, and her tightly closed fist reached up to knock upon the door — but upon hearing the breathy moans of a woman inside, she stopped. She chose to make herself sick, to stand there and listen…a cruel reminder that the Duwín-ma had not promised her anything.

Nothing at all.

Then she had retreated to her own bedroom, like a dog kicked to the ground.

Aínwar knew Thranduil took lovers, as he should. He was a king who had loved and lost, and by his handsomeness alone merited the most beautiful of all the elven women.

For the first time in centuries, she revisited their time together in her dreams. His hand on her face, his kiss upon her brow. Again and again. That was all she had. But sometimes, her dreams inched into territory beyond the visions of the brew…gripping the fine hairs on her neck, his tongue in her mouth…

And she was so, so angry with herself. She had not come here to play make-believe, to answer the animalistic call of lust from between her legs, to imagine herself beneath a king who had barely offered her a single word of encouragement — and a king, at that, who was so wildly unattainable. Deep remorse coursed through her, from dusk until dawn. Every day, every night.

Tarlaeth, Baldreg, Rulzhag…those who counted on her…they would be disgusted. She was disgusted. The shame had been enough to keep her far, to add to their distance which grew by the day.

She was better than this. She was —

Curses, she had done it again...lapsed into thought while Elyón patiently waited.

"I suppose that was a silly question," Elyón said, offering to fill the silence herself. "He's not the conversational type, after all. I'm sure you know better than most to not prod sleeping dragons."

Aínwar smiled weakly. If only their relationship could be summarized as such: the Elvenking isn't conversational, and the Firekeeper doesn't wish to give insult.

If only.

As the doors to the throne room lurched open, she could see Thranduil sitting atop his throne, looking the other direction. Halfway down the winding path, she saw that he had a guest: Gandalf the Grey. She smiled, and a little bounce entered her step as she approached them. She thought Thranduil would take it upon himself to explain why her presence had been so urgently requested...but his quietness only endured. He only sat there, looking the other way as if he wanted nothing to do with the conversation about to be had.

"Miss Firekeeper," Gandalf said warmly. The twinkle in his eyes was just as she had remembered. "You look very well today."

"I am, sir," she said.

"You have flowers on your dress, you know."

Aínwar glanced down. "Oh…oh! Well, I was sitting outside when…when I was summoned."

"Yes, yes," said Gandalf knowingly, "it is a wonderful day for a sit."

"Um, it certainly is…sir."

"I've come with the gift you were promised," Gandalf said, presenting her with a small pouch, "from Lady Galadriel. She sends her best wishes along with it."

Aínwar took the package. She unwrapped it and revealed a beautiful pendant, strung with a chain that glittered like yellow sunlight. Her fingers gently caressed the jewel, seeing how the light reflected off of its smooth surface and cast prismatic rainbows upon the floor. She could have never imagined herself wearing such a pretty thing, but thought it offensive to refuse something Galadriel had personally sent.

"It's lovely," she said quietly. "But—"

"When you wear it, it'll bestow you what is called a 'glamor.'"

"A glamor?"

"I believe you and Lady Galadriel discussed your rather conspicuous appearance. Adorning the necklace grants you a magical disguise, of sorts. Nothing too much, but it will hide the less…desirable parts of you — I'm quite sorry, dear, but you know what I mean — the horns, the scales, whatever else. However! Your eyes shall remain the same. It's quite difficult in any form of magic to change the eyes, for they are the window to the soul."

Aínwar stared at the pendant apprehensively. She did not want to accept that her form must change…but she had little choice if she ever wanted to leave this forest. "Should I put it on?"

"If you so wish."

She lifted it to her neck and attempted it to latch it. But the clasp was small and difficult, and she did not have the dainty, elegant fingers needed for the job. She struggled in vain for a moment, before she heard Thranduil's deep voice behind her: "Allow me."

Heart beating, she nodded. She audibly swallowed as she handed him the pendant, and allowed her gaze to linger far too long on the smooth palm of his hand. Turning, she swept her hair away from her shoulders, hyperaware of his presence behind her. The rustle of his robes, the turn of his head as he fixated on the clasp, the brush of his fingers along the top of her spine…

"Just give it a moment," Gandalf said, "and it'll begin to take effect."

It was over in an instant. She turned, certainly not feeling any different. But as Thranduil backed away, she saw a distinct shift in his eyes. She suddenly felt very self-conscious.

"H-how do I look?" she asked awkwardly.

Thranduil opened his mouth, and she leapt for his words, near begging for them…but Gandalf came first. "Like yourself, my dear," he said, completely oblivious, "and strangely enough, not at all the same. I thought to bring a mirror. Here. Look upon yourself and see how you've changed."

Hands trembling, Aínwar took the mirror. The crest of her head, where her black horns had once protruded, was flat and round; her ears were pointed still, but more similar to the contour of the elves'; and the gold scales had disappeared from the highlight of her cheekbones — the saddest change of all, for she had been most fond of them. Experimentally, she swiped her hand where her horns would have been, and felt nothing. This must have been a very powerful magic, indeed.

Her eyes did remain the same, thankfully. She wouldn't have known herself without them. "Please send Galadriel my sincerest gratitude," she said, handing the mirror to Gandalf with a bow. "I promise to take good care of it."

"Excellent!" he said, pleased. "Now, King Thranduil, if you would excuse us. I have one more gift…but it must be shared in secret, I'm afraid."

Thranduil's face remained unchanged. "If you think I'll be dismissed from my own throne room, Mithrandir, then you're gravely mistaken."

"This is a matter of life or death for Miss Firekeeper. I ask that you leave and, if not, we shall conduct this business elsewhere…with far less privacy, I would presume."

Though Aínwar initially thought him frail-looking, she was once again reminded that Gandalf the Grey was a very powerful force indeed; when he drew himself into a straighter posture, he nearly matched Thranduil in height, and his voice had taken on a dark and threatening tone. She blinked back and forth at the opposing forces, wishing she were far away…she made a mental note to ask Tauriel about the skills of wizards when she returned from her patrol.

She inherently understood that Thranduil wouldn't want them exchanging this information — whatever it was — anywhere near other unsuspecting elves. For one unnerving moment, she watched them plant their feet in a battle of resolve…until the king exhaled and turned on his heel, his robes billowing about his figure.

"Make it quick," he said, voice tight.

Then he was gone.

Gandalf sighed, his near terrifying aura diminishing with his breath. "And now for the real issue at hand…" He looked at her, face grim. "Lady Galadriel took it upon herself to explain your predicament to me, and I think it best that we address it now. Ah, ah — no need to feign ignorance. Not with me. I know how the very soul of Ancalagon the Black resides inside of your own, if that is even an appropriate term for the matter."

Aínwar had meant to protest…but she closed her mouth, defeated. She stared at a place beyond Gandalf's head, determined to keep her chin up, even if only for show.

"Who else knows?" she managed.

"She and I," said Gandalf. "And you, of course. I have no idea how such a magic could be done, and still I don't. Texts upon texts, I searched, and not once did I find any mention of Zenta'ganna. Except..."

From his satchel, he whisked forth a massive book. The spine was so wide and the pages so thick that it was a small wonder that he had even been able to carry it on his person at all; and it was bound by aged leather, its edges leafed with gold. Aínwar received the book with the utmost esteem, running her fingers over its corners.

"A trusted source of mine suggested this to me," Gandalf said. "Now, I have next to no evidence to support this claim, and we best keep that in mind…but I suspect that there might be a way that Ancalagon could be defeated — once and for all."

Aínwar's breath suspended itself within her chest, for she dared not breathe. Dared not hope. "You mean," she began, falteringly, "to remove his soul from my own? Gandalf...I would die."

"Do you know that for sure?"

"Well, I—"

No, she didn't. Such a thing had never been attempted before. Never been conceived as a thought.

"But even if it worked…how could…how—"

"I am no closer to the answer than you," said Gandalf. "So I suggest we begin reading."

Aínwar felt like her chest might cave in. He had the right idea. The chance of eradicating the Black and all future possibilities of his return — it wasn't a definitive yes…but it was neither a definitive no. And for as long as that remained the case, she had to try. She had to. If she accomplished this, she would surpass all that Zenta'ganna set out to do. Her place amongst the stars would guaranteed for the rest of eternity.

She hesitantly opened it, as if it might crumble to dust in her hands. And with a sinking feeling, she realized that the entirety of its contents were written in a script she couldn't read — though majestic it was, and she could have admired its fanciful swirls for hours.

"I…I can't read this," she said helplessly.

"Ah, yes, that is Tengwar," said Gandalf, nodding. "I should have guessed that you would've never seen it before. This script can be used with the common speech, the tongue which we speak now and that you understand natively. It would be a tedious feat indeed, for you to learn to read it…but it can be done."

"But I have no one who can teach me."

Gandalf raised his brows. "And would your friends not care enough to help you?"

Aínwar bit her lip. "Well, yes, but they're often gone, and—"

"Now there!" said Gandalf with feign admonishment. He gave her a wink, much like the first time they met. "I did not take you for the kind to make excuses. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I knew from the moment you walked into the room that you were quite extraordinary, and that it would be a shame for such an important task to be entrusted to anyone else. If you believed in me, and my faith that you could find all the answers you seek right here, in this book — you would find a way to read it. I know you would."

For weeks, she had felt her strength failing. Overcome with shame, fear, and…oh, how she hated to admit it, but desire, and — and yearning! — and with insecurity too, of all the damn things. She would have regretted meeting Thranduil at all, if it hadn't been for her imperishable trust in the wisdom of her people. He was an important element of her life's path, whether she liked or not.

The brew said it was the way.

Navigating her feelings was simply another test, another challenge she was destined to triumph. Daydreams of Thranduil could operate in the back of her mind — perhaps late at night, in the darkest corners of her awareness — but this came first. Her dragons came first. Perhaps the rest of the pieces would fall into place later, exactly where they were meant to all along.

"I — thank you," she said, clutching the book to her chest. "You're right. I know not what darkness clouded my mind. I won't let you down."

"Don't let yourself down," Gandalf said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "If you shall fail yourself, and the duty you claim with such honorable intent, then we may lose Middle Earth yet — for you know the worth of this quest more than anyone. It's time to eclipse your predecessors, Miss Firekeeper. It's time to rise."

TBC