To Suffer by the Stars

TA 2940, June 27th.

Aínwar stared at the ceiling, heart pounding against the pillow she clutched to her chest.

Gandalf's book remained unopened beside her and had so for the last five days, scornfully reminding her of her shortcomings, of her inability to read the contents inside. The script on the cover mocked her, silent in its cruelty. Reaching out, she ran her fingers over the leather cover, doubtfully wondering — if she did learn to read, if she poured all of her efforts into what would be such a menial task for most…would the fruits of her labor yield any results at all?

Her hand curled into a fist atop the book...then she rolled over, sighing.

She hadn't known if coming to Middle Earth was the right thing to do, but she'd come anyway. She'd put herself through danger and invited leagues more to come…all for the sake of trying.

Gandalf had asked her to trust him, and trust him she would.

Groaning, Aínwar covered her face with the pillow. Curse herself, for never having learned to read! There was no use for such a skill in the waste, for the one book that the Matron Mother owned had mostly contained maps of the First Age, and the only letters involved were the tiny captions below the drawings. She had always wondered what unknown information those descriptions withheld…as a child, she had assumed reading — to look upon a symbol and take meaning from it — was a magical ability, one reserved for sorcerers and royalty, the types of people who she expected to spend their days in learning.

But still, she thought miserably, still Zenta'ganna's name taunts me, like so many things in these halls.

Right there, within her grasp, and yet unreachable. Much like the Ered Mithrin, which she could see through the spindly branches in her secret garden. Like the stars.

Or Thranduil.

He'd been moody lately. She couldn't be sure, but she suspected it had something to do with Gandalf's impolite dismissal from his own throne room. Later that evening, he had given her a look so poisonous that she felt her blood bubble from the heat of it. She wanted to tell him that it wasn't her fault — that she and the wizard weren't conspiring against him, that she…that…

Aínwar wanted to tell him many things. She always had. But she was sick of being interrupted. Sick of his assumptions and those wary looks he gave her.

"He'll see in time," she grumbled, holding the pillow a little closer.

A knock sounded at the door.

"My lady?" Elyón politely inquired. "The guard returns from their patrol. I thought you still might want to see them."

Tauriel and Darothil!

It'd been over a week now — and how she had missed them, although they had informed her that their post of eight days was on the shorter side. She excitedly jumped from the bed and scrambled to the door, where Elyón was waiting with a smile and an armful of folded towels.

"The captain will want a bath," she explained, handing the towels off. Then, with her free hand, she reached out and gently touched Aínwar's cheek. "You're paler than usual. I'll retrieve wood for the fire."

"Oh no, Elyón, you don't need to—"

"Don't need to?" she asked, having already spun on her heel for the lumber cellar. "Of course, I don't need to. But you're pale and your skin is cold, so I'll fetch more wood — because that's what I want to do. Go to the grand hall then have your bath; the fire will again be hot before your return. Now go quickly, before they all retire to their beds."

For a moment, all worldly pressures was lifted from Aínwar's shoulders. Naturally, Elyón was the first she'd considered for assistance, regarding the book. She knew without a doubt that the maid would be more than willing to put aside what little spare time she had to help. She was reminded of this, beyond all doubt and uncertainty, as she looked at her friend, who had brought her towels and kind words— even when she could have been sleeping, even at an hour this late…

Which was precisely why Aínwar couldn't ask such a thing of her.

She turned to go, all the confidence in her friends restored — a feeling all too short-lived, unfortunately, for as she rounded the corner she nearly collided with Thranduil himself.

Muttering an apology, she attempted to sidestep him, but the hall they shared was far too narrow and his imposing figure too broad for both their bodies to comfortably fit. By accident, he moved to the left as she did, then they both danced to the right, until they eventually gave up on ignoring each other's presence…and locked eyes instead.

"Firekeeper," he said shortly.

"Elvenking."

He inclined his head at the necklace. "Does it suit you? The glamor?"

"Does it?" Aínwar asked, a fraction too bold for comfort.

Rather than challenging her, Thranduil's penetrative gaze roamed the features of her face — or lack thereof. She wondered if he'd ever studied her like this before, as she had done to him. And she felt the warmth of his attention trickling all over her…sinking deep past her skin, into her heart, lighting her up from the inside.

"It isn't the 'you' I know," he said ambiguously. "What of Mithrandir's other gift?"

"What of it?"

Thranduil lifted his head slightly. "You know I don't like secrets."

"I'm a keeper of fires, Elvenking, not secrets."

"Really now?"

Thranduil took one single step towards her, and though her whole body trembled, her feet of all the things refused to budge. His head tilted, eyes boring into her own…and not with his typical anger, she realized, but enigmatic intensity. For once, he was reading, and not blaming. Learning...and not criticizing.

And all the defenses she had erected came tumbling down. They were constructed to safeguard her from his anger, but she had no experience in handling this. This was new. This was unfamiliar.

"Nothing that concerns you," she said.

"Oh, but there must be one. It's written all over your face."

One secret that concerns him, indeed, she thought.

"It's not what you think," Aínwar said, and that was the honest truth, for it had nothing to do with neither dragons nor treasure. "But I can't tell you. You would never believe me."

"No?"

Thranduil had never stood before her — not like this, so unmoving. They were always plighted by the waltz of fury: his grip upon her wrist, restricting; back and forth, their energy exchanging like fire, like lightning; his robes, his scent, his anger — all wrapping around her whole body, then constricting with unrelenting, crushing pressure. And even when their dance slowed to those quiet moments, inconsequentially minute in the grand expanse of time…when they stood before the statue of his wife, or when he graced her neck with the pendant…he had lingered at the edges of her vision, unseen.

Like a ghost, or the dream that he was.

Now, she could really observe him. He was enveloped in mahogany red, a color that complimented his white hair. She could see the lines of his face, and even for an elven lord unspoiled by time, she could see the evidence of his years: the slight crinkle around his lips, the wisps of grey threaded through his dark brows, the sharpness of his regal cheekbones, where the skin had probably once been fuller.

The longer she remained so willingly captured by his gaze, the more she seemed to conceive the shape of the stranger from her visions. Back then, she had seen the eyes and only that, with all else obscured by the fogginess of the astral world. But as she reflected on it, she could have sworn she did see that exact nose, caress that exact jawline…

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Aínwar smiled ruefully. "Never, my lord."

"I thought you said, 'fires, not secrets,'" he remarked and, though she might have completely fabricated it, she swore she heard a tinge of playfulness.

Something big and indescribable jumped inside of her. Fires of a different sort, perhaps. Fires which could not been seen, except by one who too wielded the flame of the heart — one in particular that could not be quenched, only reignited until its scorching heat blazed a path all the way to the heavens in the wake of its hunger.

"That's correct, my lord…" she said softly.

And she fully expected to lash out, to threaten her, to rip her open until he laid all her beating heart to bare — but Thranduil only looked off to the side with a contemplative, "Hm."

"If-if you would excuse me," she said, "I was hoping to meet the guard in the grand hall. Tauriel…and Darothil, they—"

"Then go."

As if realizing how harsh he had sounded, he added, "I'm sure they'll be happy to see you."

Never breaking eye contact, she nodded shakily. "And I them. G-good night, my lord."

x

The grand hall was bustling with activity: guards stripping away their armor and weapons, elated to be rid of them; reunions of family, friends, and lovers; some shouting rapidly in Elvish, their duties unending even after having returned home. Aínwar sifted through the crowd, recognizing and greeting some with whom she had been acquainted before, until she found Tauriel.

The she-elf was more disheveled than usual. Small twigs and flecks of dirt were scattered throughout her usually immaculate hair, and there was a streak of black upon her face...

Dirt?

No, Aínwar realized. Blood.

"Where…" she began faintly. "Where's Darothil?"

"He —" Only then did Tauriel hear the lilt in Aínwar's voice, the very subtle rise of panic. "Oh, my friend, don't worry! Only the blood of orcs and other foul creatures was spilled during our time on the border. Eltarluin, could you kindly tell us where your cousin has gone?"

"Only to the wine cellars," Eltarluin said, who stood a few paces away, removing his breastplate. At a lower tone, he muttered, "And my mother tells me he wasn't raised by wolves…"

Tauriel grinned and touched Aínwar's shoulder. "We better not tell Darothil that a young and beautiful woman worried for his safety."

"He'd never let us forget," Eltarluin added with a roll of his eyes.

"Come, Aínwar, let's go to the bathhouse together," said Tauriel, handing the last of her weapons to another guard. "We'll have the space to ourselves, for once. The ellith of finer upbringing wouldn't dare come so close after our return. They say the stench of orcs clings to their dresses. And—" She raised her eyebrows. "— I heard the the Grey Pilgrim visited during our absence. I'm sure you have much to share."

As she'd said, the baths were empty. Aínwar never minded the other women — those who complained about callouses on their fingers from playing the harp, or the others who gossiped about who was courting whom. She thought their silly chitchat was endearing. But she was far more comfortable with the women of the guard, who washed grime from their faces and had strong, sinewy muscles and shared stories of their conquests.

And, though she could not be sure, things hadn't seemed...right in the bathhouse. Not lately. More than once, she had caught a group of women discreetly looking her direction, their delicate hands concealing their lips; another time, she had been unable to find her towel and was forced to ask another for a spare. Then, worst of all, she had found a cockroach scuttling in the folds of her dress. After merely picking it up and carrying it outside, she could hear disgusted laughter from behind her, although she couldn't fathom why — were elves not loving creatures who treated all living beings with respect?

She wouldn't have considered herself paranoid, or even the jumpy sort at all…and she had next to no experience with social etiquette, so she supposed they could have been whispering about anything, really…

But with the presence of the ellith guards, she felt far safer, having not realized how tormented she had been about the situation until then.

"The orcs intensify in numbers," said Tauriel with a displeased sigh. She submerged herself to her shoulders, eyes distant as Aínwar combed her fingers through her hair. "We're having troubles forcing them back. I fear it's only a matter of time before they breach the forests. I've tried speaking to the king, encouraging him to confront the problem at its source, but he…" She laughed, pitifully. "Well, if only he was like you."

Aínwar meant to bring up the book, she really did — but seeing how Tauriel's eyes closed from bliss, how the tightness of her face simply melted away into the soapy water…she said nothing. Nothing demanding, at least. Nothing that would add more weight to her friends' shoulders.

She smiled instead. "You've earned yourself rest, my friend. So rest."

Tauriel sighed happily. "I hope so. But tell me, what of you? It's been many days."

"Lady Galadriel sent me a necklace," said Aínwar, her fingers hovering about her naked collarbone, "with a beautiful pendant with which I can glamor myself. I should wear it more often. I keep meaning to, but I feel unlike myself when I…well, when I don't look like myself."

"It'll be necessary if you ever want to leave," said Tauriel seriously. "You stand out too much. It would terrible for you to be targeted. They would hunt you...hunt you to the ends of the earth if they knew who you were. You can't take that risk."

"The necklace won't leave my neck beyond the front gates," Aínwar promised.

Tauriel relaxed again. "And no elf here would betray anyone under the council's protection. You're as safe as you could ever be, and I am glad of it. What else?"

Right there, she meant to say it again. This was the perfect opportunity to ask for help, to ask for more from Tauriel, who had already given her so much…but she couldn't.

"Gandalf gave me a book," she said. "He thinks that — whatever is written inside — could help me on my quest. I found it hard to believe him...but I must. There's no other way. Not if I want to move forward."

"You're in the best hands possible and would be wise to trust them." Tauriel chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Perhaps you could find something in our library, too…something that I missed—" Aínwar doubted that very much. "—I can't believe I've never thought to bring you there. We'll go first thing in the morning."

Aínwar, despite lacking what she needed to even use the library, thought it would be a pleasant change of scenery. It was certainly better than holing herself up in her bedroom.

"I would love that," she said, meaning it. "I'm so glad to have you back, even for such a short time."

Then Tauriel told her a hilarious story about how Darothil filled Eltarluin's packs with pouches of sand and he lost his balance atop the trees, not having been accustomed to the change in weight, however slight it was. And Aínwar laughed and laughed, momentarily forgetting her worries, refusing to acknowledge how she sometimes wished things could stay exactly this way forever.

x

TA 2940, June 28th.

When Tauriel first opened the doors to the library, Aínwar thought she had walked into yet another dream.

It must've been built into a precipice in the forest, and the walls, much like those of her bedroom, were loosely woven by the roots and branches of trees above; she could see through them, how the expanse of Mirkwood stretched on and on, its beauty unmatched. She had never seen so many trees in her life, like looking upon an emerald green ocean.

The floors descended as a spiral at least five stories, ending on a well-lit platform that was lined with rows of desks and chairs, and flanked by two waterfalls on either side. Even if she could not read, she would be honored to be surrounded by such a culmination of knowledge, of history so far beyond her.

The sight took her breath away.

"I knew you would like it," said Tauriel, grinning. "You can see the sun travel in the sky from here, from east to west...I could spend all my time here, chasing the light with my eyes. It's best view in Mirkwood, except for perhaps the king's own balcony. Now, let's find you a table."

As they walked down the spiral platform, Aínwar reached out and gently touched the spines of all the books she passed, delighting in how they felt against the pads of her fingers — some were smooth and leathery, and others were coarse, withered by age. Many had no spines at all, just a fading string with which they were bound.

Down, at the bottom, she politely observed the guests who frequented the library. A few seemed to be there for hobby, but many had dignified robes and scholarly robes; one group of elves was engaged in a poetic debate about…well, Aínwar wasn't exactly sure. They used many words she didn't recognize. But she could sense their passion for the subject, and it made her both excited and nervous to be here.

Once Tauriel claimed their space, Aínwar laid the book upon the table and stepped back, honoring its sheer size.

"He really must've wanted to keep you out of trouble…by occupying you here until the end of your days!" Tauriel exclaimed. "How do you plan on reading all of that?"

"Time," said Aínwar, sighing, "of which I have plenty to spare."

Tauriel's lips twisted doubtfully. "I suppose you're right." She squinted at the horizon. "I was summoned to the king's throne room before high noon. Do you need anything before I leave?"

"You've done more than enough. I have all of the resources that I need right here." She waited, but Tauriel was hesitating, the turn of her heel slower than when she moved with purpose. "Go!" she added, more firmly. "I'll see you in the dining hall for dinner."

Aínwar aimlessly occupied herself while Tauriel ascended the platforms back to the grand hall. She touched the pendant…caressed the book…feeling sick, and more tired than usual…inhaling until her eyes seemed to open of their own volition, she set her eyes upon pages and pages of script she could not read, and hoped she could piece together the mysterious symbols.

x

From somewhere in the hallway, Thranduil could hear Elyón's familiar footfall, and then Aínwar's sleepier shuffling not long after.

"My lady," the maid was whispering, "you shouldn't fall asleep there…"

"I — I haven't had fire…and I've been away all day…please, don't worry for me. I'm just a little tired."

"I'll retrieve wood immediately."

Thranduil glanced at the clock, noting with some astonishment that sunrise was not too distant, and that he himself should've retired to bed hours before. He set his goblet down and stared at the leftover contents, now warm and bland, thinking that he had seen her entering the library two or three times now.

Aínwar returned late the following evening as well…and the one after that, and the one after that, too. He waited for her every time — initially, he decided he was bored and had nothing better to do; but then, because he wanted to, and not for any particular reason…at least not one he could discern — remaining slightly suspicious all the while, as was in his nature.

But by the seventh day, he was far too bothered to let it continue.

As the next shift of guards were leaving for their patrol — back to rejoin Legolas at the southern border, where the orc numbers were increasing — he spotted the captain's fiery hair amongst the crowd and summoned her urgently to the side.

"Tell me why the Firekeeper has been in and out of the library," he said.

Tauriel gave him an ill-tempered smile. "Do you fault her for wanting to do some light reading, my lord? Can she not exist in peace, free to spend her imprisonment how she pleases?"

"You know as well as I do that she's not going in there for some light reading."

"Ask her yourself then," Tauriel said, straightening. "You think she's shared all of her secrets with me? Perhaps she has, and she has nothing else to give…but I'll never know, because I wouldn't expect such a thing from her. She has as much of a right to privacy as anyone else."

"She is my guest to protect," Thranduil began angrily, "and it is my right—"

"Aínwar does not need protection!" Tauriel's ears had already gone pink in that telltale manner, and she was trying very hard to keep her volume down. "What she needs is more friends — friends who will be there for her when the time comes. And this, you would understand, if you genuinely cared…" She withdrew, bitterly. "You and her aren't so different, my lord."

Thranduil had not heard such venom, not from Tauriel, since the day Erebor fell…when she had looked into his eyes and claimed he could have never loved anyone.

With that, she strode towards the entrance, her pace fast and tumultuous as a thunderstorm; fist trembling, she raised her arm in command as she entered the wood, and the doors shut behind her.

x

TA 2940, July 6th.

"The invitation to spar still stands."

Aínwar nearly jumped out of her skin, having just heard Darothil's impish voice from behind. He stood there, hands on his hips, peering curiously down onto the sorry sight of her: nearing tears from frustration, her face pale from lack of fire once again. She knew she ought to return to her room more frequently, but she genuinely loved the fresh air in the library and thought she might go insane if she were locked up in her bedroom any longer.

"I thought you'd gone back with Tauriel," she said, genuinely surprised to see him.

"Not this time," he said, dumping himself into a chair next to her. The slight breeze rustled his copper hair. "Please don't even try to explain. I detest reading. I just heard you were down here and thought you might want company. Or, better yet, to come to the training room."

"Oh, Darothil, I would love to, but…"

"Duty, right?" He leaned closer to her, blue eyes piercing and just as intense as the night she had seen them, cutting through all darkness. "I have the distinct feeling that your book has something to do with that. Well, isn't it also your duty to fight when your people need you? To be physically strong so you can protect yourself?"

Aínwar stared back, feeling fondly exasperated of him. As the smile grew on her face, he encouraged it with his own silly expressions until she was outright laughing.

"Fine, fine!" she exclaimed. "You'll have your way."

"Wonderful! Shall I escort you back to the king's quarters, so you can change?"

Aínwar had nearly forgotten. She glanced down, seeing that she was wearing her newly stitched gown, which Elyón had brought that morning. The dress was lightweight, and of similar fabric and form as the green one she had adorned for the last few months — only gold, of course.

Tears had sprung to her eyes when she stripped the dress from its delicate, papery wrapping…unveiling Zenta'ganna's old handiwork, only now sewn into a beautiful bodice, the ornateness of which completely stunning her. Though it maintained the same stylish look as the other, this one was far more efficient, with a heavier skirt that would not fly so readily beneath her feet; more form-adjusting laces on the back, so it better conformed to the shape of her body; and sleeves that ended at her elbow, so her arms were exposed and free to move.

She could have asked for clothes more suitable for training, but there was something about Zenta'ganna's fabric which made her feel powerful and quite like herself again, even while wearing the glamor.

"No, I'll wear this," she said. Darothil's brow quirked. "What? You think I can't handle you in a dress?"

"I have no doubt about that," he said, grinning. "In fact, if I were an orc and saw my enemy before me in naught but a dress so dazzling, her sword withdrawn, with eyes as fierce as yours — I might think I had seen an angel of war and would immediately run for the hills!"

"An angel of war?" Aínwar snorted. "You forget that I have only handled my tiny dagger — never before a blade meant to be wielded by warriors!"

"That we shall change, little faelug. That we shall change."

x

The training room was loud with voices and the clash of steel. Upon entering, Aínwar immediately recognized about a third of the elves present, many of whom she had met through Tauriel and Darothil's acquaintance. Some were dueling with heavy greatswords, but quite a few instead held quivers, their arrows launching from their bows at a speed so mindblowingly quick that Aínwar couldn't visually keep up.

"Incredible," she whispered, eyes tracking their lithe and effortless movements.

"No better group to show you the ways of combat," Darothil said proudly. "Eltarluin, look who joins us today!"

Eltarluin was mid-swing, wielding dual silver blades, both of which were stout and close-range and yet still so gracefully crafted. As she watched him fight as if he were dancing upon the field, she further reaffirmed to herself that she could've never overpowered him in a one-on-one, that only his cocky assuredness had saved her life that fateful night.

After his victory, he sheathed the weapons and approached them. "Well, well, this will be good," he said. "I haven't forgotten how you bested me with your tiny dagger."

"That 'tiny dagger' would never see me through the carnage of war."

"And you plan on seeing war yourself?"

"I am a leader who never has. Tell me, would you follow your king if he hadn't ever left the confines of his throne room before?"

Eltarluin smiled, a far less mischievous look than that of his cousin's...but still she saw the resemblance. "You make an excellent point. Follow Darothil. Let him show you the armory, where you shall have your pick."

Like when Tauriel had shown her the library, Aínwar couldn't help but run her fingers over the many new and different weapons; they were all exquisitely crafted and smooth to the touch, and only once she picked up a dagger with a polished wooden handle did she fully understand how light the elvish make was. She turned it over in her hands, flipping it about, testing the weight.

But she knew how to use a dagger and would never choose an elven blade over dragonbone. Her eyes drifted over to the bows. She gently touched the fletchings as to not disturb them and grazed her finger along the arrowheads, appreciating their lethal points.

Then she saw the longswords, their slender elegance calling to her. Aínwar lifted one at random, once again surprised by its weight, or lack thereof…she saw her reflection in the flat of the blade, the light of her eyes surrounded by intricate, elvish patternwork. She swung the sword in an arc to her feet, seeing how the end of it reached all the way to the ground, an extension of her own arm.

"This one," she said. "I want to learn with this one."

Darothil grinned. "Then let's stop the lollygagging and fight already."

By the time they reentered the training room, a wide circle had been created for them; many of the elves who had been engaged in practice before were now lounging about, weapons sheathed or at their feet, undoubtedly waiting for Aínwar to embarrass herself. Exactly like she had when she first started wearing their clothes, she felt silly — a child in the grand scheme of things, holding a blade meant for a warrior.

But still, she thought, her hand clenching the grip. Still, I must learn. I can become a warrior, if I so wish, with time.

She would never have the heightened reflexes of an elf, but just as Darothil had pointed out, who better to train with? The vast difference in biological prowess could serve her well in the end.

Darothil withdrew his own blade, the one he had held to the throat the night they met. She recognized the unique sound of it, scraping against its sheath. "You're not here to defeat me," he reminded. "You're here to be educated. Let's first establish your innate mastery of the sword, then we can make corrections."

The longsword was so foreign to her, but she felt that it was right.

And in a strange way, it felt prophetic. She couldn't explain why. When Thranduil had first looked at her, and she had seen the blue of his eyes…or when the voices of her visions became true, manifesting themselves in the real world…the sword elicited the exact same feeling. One of divinity.

Of power.

Darothil lunged for her. She stepped to the side and swung the sword up, letting the edge of his blade scrape against hers — the shriek of the metal was in her ears, speeding her heartbeat, further awakening the sleeping mightiness inside of her.

Aínwar knocked his weapon away from her, but with a nimble spin the elf had its point at her sternum. She saw how the point hovered over her bodice, a mere breadth from snatching the fabric. The crowd of elves booed in her honor.

A smile spread over her face.

"Again," she said.

This time, she moved first. In a sequence similar to the one she'd used on the night of her capture, she feigned an attack, then swung about Darothil's blindside. Before he knew it, she stood on his other side, the longsword stretching for the skin of his neck. There were a few polite claps from the audience. Eltarluin was looking particularly satisfied.

"Same mistake as Eltarluin," she remarked. "You elves never expect your target to do anything but stand there and be slayed."

"Tricks only work once," Darothil said, obviously delighted with the back-to-back, "and will not serve you past the first move."

He swiftly turned around, fast enough that Aínwar hardly had the time to pull her sword upwards — the steel clashed and rang loudly, sending vibrations of all frequencies shuddering down her arms. At this, the crowd began to cheer loudly; Darothil started to swing, and for a few strokes she successfully parried him, though her endurance began to wane concerningly fast.

"Your sure-footedness is your best strength," he commented at his next attack, one which she almost failed to deflect. "Your form, understandably, lacks the fundamentals…but your feet won't fail you. This is a great advantage."

So years of navigating the treacherous slopes of Dùn Ga'thuum proved to be useful, after all...

Aínwar was fighting him off, but just barely, and most of her strategy depended on her ability to leap away, agile and light as a cat. But even her steady step could not outmatch the spring of elvish footfall, and within seconds Darothil once again had her at the mercy of his blade.

A strand of hair had escaped his braid and now curled about his handsome face. He blew it away. "Well, you're not totally helpless. The sword suits you well. You should continue using that one. You might have no technique, but I can tell that you inherently understand the reach of your weapon. You didn't wield it clumsily…and I say that with nothing but sincere intentions."

Aínwar nodded, not realizing how shallow her breath had become. "I can't explain it, but it just feels right in my hands."

"Perhaps you're bred to be a warrior, after all," Darothil said, smiling. "A theory which we shall test with all momentum…another time. For now, I think our practice session is over."

Aínwar was about to protest, to request just one more attempt at victory — but she saw where his eyes lingered, and she turned to see the Elvenking standing imperiously near the doors. Flustered, she wondered exactly how long he had been standing there, watching her make a fool of herself.

"Does he come to practice with his own blade?" she asked.

"No, dueling any one of us would be child's play for the king." Nudging her forward, Darothil added quietly, "I think he is here to see you. Keep the sword at your side for now…it makes you look queenly."

"Qu — what now? Oh, you naughty elf!" she hissed as he strengthened the slight push into a full-on shove. Thankfully, her sure-footedness truly saved her that time, and she just barely managed to keep from falling to the ground as she stumbled in front of Thranduil.

She stood before him, staring...wishing that her heart hadn't already been beating so hard, for it could hardly keep up now.

"You fought well," Thranduil said. "I assume you've never used such a weapon before?"

She appreciatively touched the handle. "Thank you, my lord. It served me well, though I know it's hardly more than a training prop."

And — by the fire of Zenta'ganna — Thranduil actually smiled at her. She nearly missed it in all its beautiful subtlety: a small quirk of the lips, a shimmer in the eyes…she thought her heart could take no more, that it might simply explode from her chest and leave her dead upon the floor.

"Perhaps one day you will wield a sword of mighty power," he said lightly. "One that has slain many a foe, worthy of its own name."

You have dreamt of a sword in a time long gone.

Galadriel's words emerged from the depths of her subconscious to the forefront of her mind. Words that had slipped through, hidden in the shadows of visions more tangible. This was no sword of legends — Aínwar was certain of this, even knowing practically nothing of elven bladesmithing. So why had such a thing affected her so?

And…something else.

"Please," Thranduil said, interrupting her thoughts. "Walk with me."

She did.

x

As Aínwar walked alongside him, Thranduil had the distinct impression that she looked like royalty herself…particularly in that new dress of hers, the bodice of which having recycled the fabric from the golden tunic she once wore.

Now, the fabric was cut and sewn into an elegant, form-fitting shape, one of both modesty and suggestive beauty. The dimensions of her resplendent neck curved perfectly into the shoulders; upon the hollow of her collar, the pendant glittered yellow and matched the luster of her dress. The skirt was full but of efficient length; when she had whirled on Darothil, her blade withdrawn, she had almost carried the unstoppable demeanor of a heavenly being in battle.

But fighting in such a dress? Was she mad?

Thranduil observed her from the corner of his eye. Certainly, wearing that pendant, she did resemble a mortal woman…though, perhaps, more elvish that he had given her credit for. Humans did not have that glow, the sort of which immortal beings radiated; and despite her near four-hundred years, she hardly looked past the age of maturity…and not to mention, her ears were, in fact, still pointed.

He stopped, hands folded behind his back, and turned to her.

"It has been brought to my attention that I haven't been very…hospitable," he said. "And that it would perhaps benefit me — us — if I were to be more forthright with you. So, once again, I find myself apologizing, Miss Firekeeper. But I'm sincere in my efforts this time. And I swear upon my word that I shall abandon my suspicions of you...if you can forgive me."

Aínwar's own hands folded, the thumbs running over each other with uneasiness. He could see her nails digging into her palm, see how her eyes skipped back and forth, as if her next move was written before her very eyes.

After much silence, she said at last, "I'd like nothing more, my lord."

The tightness between his shoulder blades loosened.

"But as consequence," he began, "you must understand why your every move is rightfully my concern. And surely, you must agree that I've been very lenient with your comings and goings." At this, Aínwar nodded; again, he felt relief, as if all the keys to her cogs were finally turning in synchronicity. "Thus, I do find it my responsibility to know why you've been entering and exiting the library at very bizarre times."

Aínwar's face began to redden. Thranduil thought her blush wasn't nearly as poignant without the splashes of gold highlighting her cheeks.

"You're eating and sleeping less," said Thranduil, "or so Elyón has reported to me. You don't maintain your fire. For someone who has lived in such solitude, you cannot claim that you miss your friends. Perhaps you miss your home, and that I can understand — but you're not the sort of warden who would weaken herself in spite of her goals to save her homeland and her…people." His chin lifted. "So tell me now: what are you searching for, and why does it bother you so?"

He fully expected her to point her finger into his chest and curse his name...yet her head merely turned to the side. "Gandalf gave me a book, one which he thought might help me. I've been trying to read its contents, but…"

She blushed more intensely.

"What is it?" he asked. When she didn't respond immediately, he said, "Remember our agreement?" And once more: "Firekeeper, I will have you tell me."

"Well, I...I can't read!"

Thranduil blinked at her, completely taken aback.

Aínwar glanced off to the side. "I wanted to ask Elyón to teach me, but she's simply too busy…and then I meant to ask Tauriel, but she's so exhausted from their patrols. Same with Darothil, and…and I do have some friends, just a few, but none who can help me. They're all doing their jobs properly and to the best of their ability, and it feels so awful knowing that I'm stuck right here — where I cannot help, and in a position from which I cannot escape!"

He was shocked. He hadn't expected so many words to come streaming out of her, practically verging on emotional rambling.

"Then tell me," he said, recapturing her attention, "what you're searching for, like I asked. If you do, perhaps I can properly do my job too…and assist you on your quest."

Aínwar stared at him, and for a moment, he thought her glamor had faded; he could've sworn he saw her horns and her starlight freckles again, but when he focused, he found that he'd only been lost in the brilliance of her eyes, and their magic had outshone even the power of the pendant.

"Alright, then," she said, looking around to ensure none would overhear. She released a thin sigh. "You are the fourth to know, and I should like it to remain that way, as that's four more than I originally intended to tell…"

Thranduil made himself listen.

He forced his mouth shut when she explained how the Black's soul was entangled with her own, that her own sacred flame hosted the darkness of his own soul, that Gandalf had suggested there might be a solution. That she could perform a miracle and unravel the connection, then slay the fragments of his dark soul and banish him to death — permanently.

All throughout this, he allowed her to talk freely. And he learned that it wasn't as simple as taking her own life: the soul, without such a powerful anchor, would simply cling to something weaker and far more susceptible to corruption. And he learned, then and there, how strong the fire inside of her must be. Housing something so…so evil, he thought, having seen the effects of Ancalagon's calamity…it was unbelievable.

The most vile servant of Morgoth was caged inside of such a small, pretty thing. That was what Gandalf had meant, when he had said: 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.

Thranduil suddenly thought it all made sense.

"I hid that from you," said Aínwar as she looked at her hands, which had begun to fidget once again, "not to lead you astray, but because—"

"You needn't explain yourself," he said, putting his hand up, even if it pained him to do so. "I perfectly understand how sharing such knowledge could bring you, and those around you, terrible misfortune. Mithrandir truly thinks that the book has the answers you seek?"

"And…and I do, as well. I can feel it."

"Then I'll help you."

"You can't! You're the king, I wouldn't…I…please don't burden yourself with such a task, my lord. I meant it when I said I can't read at all, and the book is written with the Tengwar scr—"

"I shall teach you to read the common tongue translated into the Tengwar script," said Thranduil, unwavering. "Would doing that aid you in your quest to rid this world of Ancalagon, once and for all? To put the dragon who corrupted the lands of Beleriand...forever to sleep?"

Aínwar was holding her breath. He knew she had since touched the drawings of Doriath engraved upon the walls, trying to imagine how deep the waters would run to drown those magnificent trees. She drifted in the guilt, the endless amounts of which supplied by her almost annoying sense of nobility.

Finally, she nodded. "It would."

"Then it shall be done."

"T-thank you." Her voice was peculiarly steady.

Thranduil tilted his head at her, in that manner he always found himself when analyzing something he didn't fully understand; these observances she received with all composure, unmoving, allowing him to really look. He could smell the elven soap on her, sugary and natural, but also the scent with which she had come: earthy and northern, like woodsmoke and pine needles.

"You still deny me one truth," he remarked, now beginning to wonder what could possibly be more important. "The one which concerns me."

"Yes, my lord."

When she, of all the things, began to laugh, he could not help but smile along with her. Had this become a game to her? To him? He could not deny that he was finding amusement in this…even just a little. Just enough to pursue it, to partake in the hunt until the stubborn dragon girl bowed her wings and gave him what she wanted. His heartbeat began to quicken with the anticipation of it.

"And you won't share it?"

"I did say you would never believe me," she said.

"I've heard and believed many stories unimaginable. Such a thing begins to happen when you've lived as long as I have."

"I would die and live once again before I shared the way of the stars with you," Aínwar said seriously, "and not from dishonorable intention, or to entertain myself with your suffering…"

Thranduil's lip twitched. "But you do seem so entertained."

"Oh, yes, there's no denying that!" she exclaimed with another laugh. "I know how elven people read their own stars. Yours are loving and benevolent, creating charts and designing messages which you interpret with the utmost ease. Yours dance and sparkle, and you look upon them with respect in honor of their wisdom."

She looked upward, as if she could see the night sky through the ceiling.

"But the stars I've come to know," she continued, "they collide in chaos and destruction, because dragons believe that their paths are best illuminated by the light of fire. That suffering makes us strong. That suffering is the core of all insight. I dare not insult the stars by revealing the conclusion of their efforts too early…for in their pandemonium, I've read my own chart. And should they take away what I've been promised, I would be most heartbroken."

Thranduil couldn't argue with that. He knew the cruelty of the stars all too well, and yet…he had never once considered that pain was simply another obstacle to be conquered.

"Then you shall heed their will," he said, "until the end of all things."

He meant to take his leave to his study, to ruminate over the strongest wine. Just as he inclined his head, to bid her farewell for the evening, she said, "I — I would have you know, Thranduil. And if…if I have the privilege of remaining by your side until then…until the end of all things, as you say…I'll tell you everything."

Thranduil's expression softened. "I'll hold you to your promise, then. Good night, Aínwar."

That night, though the wine loosened his muscles and made him wish for a long sleep, he went to the balcony and drunkenly wondered if the stars from her world had now landed in the skies of Middle Earth, alongside his…or if they were destined to remain apart, their lights never reaching each other's horizons.

TBC