The Witch's Spell

TA 2940, October 1st.

Thranduil opened his eyes to the sound of throaty laughter, the vague echo of "Stop your teasing, my lord!" instantly returning him to the present.

He blinked absentmindedly down at Nüllewen, eyes focusing on the image before him: his own fingers dancing across her breasts; her pale nipples, hardened into peaks beneath his feather-light touch; her dilated stare, riddled with mindless hunger, but quickly realizing by the moment that he had completely forgotten she was even there.

Damn it, he thought.

"Thranduil?"

Nüllewen had never used his name. Never. But now, he realized with an internal groan, she was concerned. She propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes framed with caring she had never offered him before.

"Thra—"

He pushed her back to the bed, refusing to hear it. Refusing to let his momentary lapse of awareness alter the dynamic between them, which had existed in a perpetual state of late-night pleasure for hundreds of years. Saying his name, being worried for him, as if his personal struggles legitimately mattered to her…

It would change everything.

Within seconds, her pupils had enlarged again and her breathing had quickened, reminding him that it was time to finish what he had started.

"I apologize for neglecting your needs, pretty one," he muttered, kissing the pale, opalescent skin over her collarbone. He meant to speak, to explain, to call his error done and in the past, so that it might be forgotten. "I…"

Is she in the library right now, reading? Or with Darothil? I haven't been to the training room in a few weeks…perhaps I should go today? I wonder if it's time to graduate her from the schooling sword and grant her a weapon of her own? I'll contact the blacksmith, have him make something of —

Damn it.

Again.

But thankfully, Nüllewen was far younger than him — young enough, at least, that her naïveté hadn't yet yielded to the perceptiveness of maturity — and she merely huffed at him. "You're usually so quick to—"

"So quick to what?" he asked huskily, taking her nipple between his teeth and pressing his tongue flush against her skin. One of her arms slithered around his neck and the other combed through his hair. She hummed with approval, glad to have captured his attention once again.

"To release yourself, my lord," she said through a delicate sigh, returning to their usual formalities. "Something distracts you."

"Like what?"

Thranduil was already distracted by her body again. Nüllewen was a beautiful elleth, one of the earliest he had ever taken to bed after Êlúriel's passing — he had always admired her pale skin and beautiful golden hair, and of all the women he had ever brought to his room, she had always been the least chatty and the most willing to serve.

Except for today, it seemed.

"Perhaps, ah—!" She gasped as he curled a finger inside of her. "—your mind is occupied by a…a dragon—"

Thranduil paused, his teeth just barely grazing the skin behind her ears. His mind threatened to wander once again…and he grew irritated. Irritated by Nüllewen's excessive and quite uncharacteristic talkativeness. Especially irritated that Aínwar continued to torment him, even in his own bedroom, where he should have been far beyond her influence.

"She has been quite the disturbance—"

Intending to silence her once and for all, Thranduil slid into her; as she arched her back with a guttural moan, he took her wrists and pinned them above her head. And still, she meant to talk…her lips parted, lashes fluttering, and he looked deep into her eyes, silencing her further: "You are the only one distracting me, silly elleth. Hush now, and let me fuck you without interruption."

As he had for hundreds of years, he sought temporary relief with Nüllewen's body — and for a brief moment, all had returned to normal. She wrapped her legs around him. He buried his face in her neck. She cried out. He groaned. No names exchanged. No time wasted. Mechanical and detached, just as he preferred it…at least with her.

Yet, for an even briefer — and far more regrettable — moment, the mention of Aínwar had conjured an image in his mind…and suddenly, it was she who was moaning for him, the sound of his name rolling from her tongue like honey, his hands tangling in the black waves of her hair. And the image was so unexpected and downright distasteful that he found himself abruptly pulling out of Nüllewen…he could have sworn she clutched at him for a second longer than usual, but still he ripped himself from her grasp and shifted to the edge of the bed, leaving her breathless and unfulfilled.

"You are distracted!" she accused, obviously hurt.

At his lack of response, she crawled over and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, mumbling elvish profanities into his neck. "You should not let such a hideous little thing provoke you like this, my lord," she whispered. "We all see how her unwelcome presence troubles you. She will be gone soon enough, and things shall return to the way they were—"

"Nüllewen…" he said warningly, not liking how his voice wavered.

"The others are cruel to her, you know," she continued, somehow so oblivious of the way he tensed beneath her hands, "particularly in the bathhouse. They laugh behind their hands…they say that she's dirty, that no magical pendant could make her less ugly. That no soap could ever scrub the brown from her skin—"

"Enough!" said Thranduil sharply, jerking away from her again.

He felt ill.

"What?" Nüllewen asked, the accusatory tone returning. "They're only doing you a favor! Have you forgotten how hateful your own words once were? Didn't we once laugh in the heat of our intimacy, agreeing that the sooner she left, the better?"

"We did no such thing," said Thranduil, turning away from her as he slipped into his robes.

"You're lying to yourself. You know we did." Her eyes hardened. "So what's changed then? You're not yourself, my lord. Has she promised you treasures from the mountain, beguiling you with the deceptive, slithering tongue dragons are so well known for?"

"Leave."

"But—"

"Leave," Thranduil repeated, far too quietly. "Your king commands it."

Nüllewen wrinkled her nose. "You called her witch…then let her magic seize you by the throat."

Despite her reluctance, she hurriedly shimmied into her gown and headed towards the door, with Thranduil following close behind to ensure that she properly left. But just before opening it, she turned and said, "You know that I'm right about her. You said things just as cruel once. It's in the nature of dragons to be greedy and shameless about their ways. You think she won't lose herself, once she sees the riches within the mountain? That she won't remember who she is — who she really is?"

I told you I came for the dragon, she had said, and nothing more.

For a very brief and even more vulnerable moment, he recalled with sinister lucidity how he had once seen Aínwar: cunning and untrustworthy. How he had watched her from the shadows, biding his time…waiting for her to slip up. Waiting for her to reveal her true intentions, so that he could tell the council, "I told you so" and cast her back to the wilderness.

These dark and intrusive thoughts, however, were soon squandered by the memories of summer: their late nights in his study, kept hearty and alive by her theatrical poetry readings; the glow of lanternfire on her cheeks as she bade him goodnight; the sound of her humming as she ate breakfast, a tune that reminded him of something ancient and forgotten.

He reflected on how cruelly he silenced Nüllewen the moment she dared to speak his name, even after centuries of acquaintance…then, with such vivid contrast, thought of how Aínwar said it without consequence, sometimes light and airy as the morning wind — Thranduil, come look! What do you call that constellation there? — or sometimes in the carols of laughter — And did your father ever punish you, Thranduil, for playing such a naughty prank on him? — and, most rarely, when she curled up on his favorite chair and fell asleep, her dream-addled whispers hardly louder than the crackle of the fire — Thranduil… — this single, mysterious utterance having the most implication of all.

A witch, perhaps, but wielding a different kind of magic. One that besieged not his kingdom or his people, like he had expected…

"She's one of us now," he said, "whether we like it or not. You and the others will cease your torment at once."

He could have sworn he saw her lower lip tremble. "And yet, you still torture me so. You'll dump her in my stables, have me teach her to ride? You even bought her a shiny new pony…all because she desired it, like a child asking her father for a new toy. And all without considering my feelings in the matter."

"You're the only one acting like a child here, Nüllewen."

But even he could not deny how familiar her words sounded…hadn't he thrown this exact tantrum, only months before? Hadn't he stormed from his own throne room, feeling slighted and disrespected? And though it hurt him to say it, still he added, "Aínwar will not stay with us forever. Once the dwarves' path inevitably leads to Mirkwood, she will join them on their quest to reclaim Erebor. We are not bound to help her beyond that point. And when she is gone, it will be as if she never came. She will return to the waste, and her name shortly afterward forgotten."

"I find that hard to believe, my lord," she said coldly, "and I think, in your heart…you also know your words to be untrue."

She shut the door, leaving Thranduil alone and shivering in the dark. A frigid wind from the open window chilled his skin, and he felt overwhelmed by his longing for milder seasons past. Sighing, he sat down with his head in his hands, helplessly wondering when the heat of summer sunshine and the image of Aínwar's smiling face had started to ignite the same warmth in his heart.

x

TA 2940, October 4th.

"You don't need to do this, Nüllewen," said Aínwar. "I'm sure you already have so much to–"

"It is the king's command," the elven woman replied, her smile more tight and dispassionate than ever. She said nothing else as they followed the path towards the dungeons, through which they would reach the stables.

Aínwar hung back slightly, unsettled. When Nüllewen had approached her in the dining hall, requested her presence in the stables, then immediately walked away without allowing any opportunity for response, the entire table had exploded into a symphony of gossip-fueled whispers.

"She's going to kill you and hide your body in the hay," Darothil had teased.

Eltarluin had been quick to point out: "Nüllewen would never be so obvious. Did you see the look on her face?"

"You're right, cousin. We must remember to check the feed barrels later."

Tauriel had nearly knocked both of their heads together, but Aínwar had gotten up regardless and solemnly bade her friends goodbye, thinking to herself that she should never again arouse the temper of a woman in love. The look on her face had been very scary, indeed. And while she had never been overly friendly anyway, Aínwar could not help but suspect that their encounter in the library had inflamed the tension between them to an all-time high. And Thranduil certainly hadn't helped the situation, dismissing Nüllewen so carelessly…

It was then that Aínwar realized she was becoming sensitive to the ways of women, and that she had, quite unknowingly, entered the viper's pit – as a competitor, no less.

"I appreciate you taking time from your day, then," she said in what soon proved to be a vain attempt at conversation, evidenced by the other woman's silence accompanied only by the sound of their footsteps echoing throughout the caverns.

Aínwar foolishly wondered if apologizing for their last encounter would help…then, in a sudden and clarifying burst of pride, thought that she had nothing to apologize for at all! She could not help that…that…that what? That she had somehow landed herself in the king's constant company? That she genuinely enjoyed spending time with him, or that he seemed to feel the same about her? That the way he looked at her made the tips of her fingers tingle, that his deep and melodious voice kindled a flame lying dormant in the pit of her stomach…?

She inhaled sharply, returning her attention to the present.

"To reach the stables, you need only take these stairs instead of those," Nüllewen was saying. "Come. A surprise awaits you."

Surprise? Aínwar thought faintly, thinking that a gang of elves would very soon jump from the shadows and smother her, after all.

But as they exited the cold, dank stairwell and emerged into a sunny field surrounded by trees, she saw that the surprise was a very pleasant one: an elf stood at its center with a leadrope in his hands, at the very end of which pranced and snorted a magnificent horse. He was all legs and umber brown, with thick black hair and flecks of white around his hooves; and when he lifted his head in alertness, turning his ears to a sound from the woods, she fully grasped exactly how tall he was compared to her. Never having seen such a creature before, she thought that he was beautiful and instantly adored him.

"Don't be afraid," said Nüllewen. "Let him smell you first."

Aínwar cautiously approached him and reached out. He dropped his velvety nose into her palm, snorting loudly. Then his lips shuffled about, as if searching for a treat. She laughed, delighted.

"The king acquired him in trade with Esgaroth, and he has come all this way from the lands of the Rohirrim," said Nüllewen, her tight smile returning, "...just for you."

"Does he have a name?"

"He's fully trained, but until he has a rider, we have yet to know his spirit. Only when it makes itself apparent to us will he acquire one."

Aínwar stared into his wise, black eyes. He blinked softly. "I imagine there are many steps to take before I earn his trust," she said with a pat to his neck.

"Absolutely," said Nüllewen, seeming surprised. A shadow of excitement edged her voice. "Horses are very misunderstood. You cannot simply leap onto him and expect him to do your bidding. Having a person atop him, like a predator would be during the hunt, goes against his very nature. But once you've secured his respect, he will follow you into any storm. First, I'll teach you to care for him. Then I'll help you gain his trust from the ground, so that he will allow your saddle upon his back and your hand to guide his reins. Here, take the rope like this, and stand to the side by his head, where he cannot run into you if he spooks."

Aínwar did as she was told. The horse jerked his head, pulling her off-balance, but she did as she knew to do: she straightened her back, raised her chin, and dug her feet into the ground.

"Horses know a leader when they see one. He must be shown that you are worthy of his trust – how else could he have the confidence to follow your direction?"

"Not too different from dragons, then," said Aínwar, smiling as he nudged her chest.

"No," said Nüllewen curiously. "Perhaps not."

Aínwar was instructed on how to walk alongside her horse, how to mind his size and the weight of his hooves. She had to learn how to quicken her pace, for he was very big and one stride of his matched nearly three of hers, but she could soon walk him from one end of the field to the other. She was thrilled by his willing obedience, and she frequently questioned throughout the day how such an enormous and powerful animal could walk so gently alongside her.

Then she learned how to brush his coat and mane, and how to pick the mud from his hooves – tasks which she enjoyed greatly and found almost meditative in their repetition. She ran a curry comb in circles over his body until he shined even brighter than before and wove braids into his tail. When the sun was beginning to set, she was left by herself with leather tack to polish, and she happily sat next to the horse's stall, listening to him nicker and eat his dinner.

"I don't think I need to sit upon your back to know your spirit," she told him as she wiped the confusing mess of straps known as a bridle. "I can tell that you're very kind and smart already. What is Rohan, this land of horses you come from? Does it see many wars? Have you ridden into any yourself?"

He only crunched his grain between his teeth.

"I forgot that you can't reply," she said, not feeling any more silly because of it. She grinned at him through the bars of his stall. "It feels nice, actually…that you have nothing to say. Dragons are crafty with their words. And they're terriblelisteners."

A sudden, crushing sense of heartache overwhelmed her. That was the case with most dragons…but never Tarlaeth, who had hovered near the entrance of the cave during Aínwar's birth and had given her first blessing of Tù'gathar only minutes later.

So that she may last this cold, lonely night without her mother, she had said.

Of course, Aínwar couldn't remember that ever happening, as such memories were long lost to the waves of time…but she believed it with her whole heart. Tarlaeth had stood in the way of another firedrake when he threatened to eat Aínwar alive. She had walked – choosing her own four legs over wings – on their first excursion up the mountain together, insisting that her job was to protect all Firekeepers from harm, that sacrificing her dignity was a small price to pay. And on the nights that were particularly cold, she had curled up in front of Aínwar's cave, blocking her from the brutality of the wind and snow outside.

If Tarlaeth were to fly over the Ered Mithrin, would the people of Middle Earth see all the good she had ever done? Would they ever know she had let Aínwar cry into her snout, or hunted food for her when the weather was too fierce? Or would they see a firedrake from the north, come to pillage their wealth and set their fields aflame?

These questions reminded her that she had work to do.

She threw one last handful of grain into his bucket before she left the stables, thinking it best to bathe before retiring to the library with her book.

x

Aínwar couldn't find Tauriel afterward, so she gathered her towels and headed to the bathhouse alone.

The evening was still young and thus, predictably, the waters and all the benches along the sides were filled with chattering elves, whose gossip for the day revolved around what seemed to be an upcoming party of sorts. They tittered on about the dresses they had commissioned, the fabrics and the colors, and how they would wear their hair. Aínwar neatly folded her own dress, admiringly caressing the gold bodice, before sliding into the perfumed water with a sigh.

Nobody other than the guards ever engaged her in conversation, so she curiously eavesdropped as she washed her body. She gathered that there would be a feast very soon, one filled with imported wines and new foods, and that this was an event which one was expected to attend with a partner. This must be the elven merrymaking she had heard so much about, and she vaguely wondered what had warranted such a celebration and what it would look like.

Would it be inappropriate for me to attend? she thought.

As the ladies continued to talk, their excitement became contagious and began to seep into Aínwar, and in her mind she dreamily conjured images of herself based on their conversations. She imagined tasting the food and sharing drinks with her friends and, most embarrassingly, taking a man's hand…watching as he guided her to the dancefloor, leaning her into a passionate, wine-drunk kiss…

"How can he handle her, smelling like that?"

"Like horse manure…"

"She smells exactly how she looks…dirty."

The whispers cut through the chaos of the bathhouse and punctured her innocent daydream, ceaseless in their malice.

This was nothing new, she supposed bitterly. The bugs in her clothes and her missing towels had eventually amounted to this – for the last few weeks, they had grown bolder and more spiteful with their choice of words. She had once assumed that their treatment would improve if she wore her glamor more frequently, to hide the parts of her that were understandably less appealing…but their comments had only shifted from talk of her horns and scales to the color of her skin. Tauriel had insisted that women who were bored with their lives tended to let their mouths run the wildest, and that she should not be bothered by their immaturity. She had ignored their hunger for attention, over and over.

But still….it hurt.

"Let's move over there," she heard someone mutter, "where the water is clean and untainted."

Ignorance plagues them for never having left the safety of their forest before, Tauriel had said when Aínwar had been bound by the wrists, filthy and exhausted, and walked through Mirkwood with hardly more than a potato sack for a dress. Yet, here she was: no longer a stranger to the kingdom and wearing clothes she thought befitting of royalty…and their comments were only crueler than ever. And for what? For entertainment? Attention?

No, she thought. Because THIS is it…

The pit of vipers.

Feeling like she'd much rather be in the library by now, she washed the last of the foamy suds from her hair, then stood from the water and wrapped herself in her towel. There was a small chorus of giggles from behind her, but she bit her lip and walked forward, refusing to look back.

But as she approached her folded clothes, she was horrified to see a pile of wet mud smeared all over her dress. Zenta'ganna's dress. Unable to speak, she lifted it, and the mud slid to the ground with a nasty splat. The entire bodice was now stained dark brown, with the dirt somehow getting between every bead and stitching, and the rest of the fabric was covered in speckles of grime. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears, drowning out the open and very loud laughter echoing from the baths.

She inhaled until she thought her chest would burst.

"Oh my," said an elf who was just leaving. "How unfortunate!"

Aínwar closed her eyes and willed the world to stop, but the lump in her throat was rapidly densifying, growing heavier by the moment. Someone touched her shoulder in what must have been genuine concern, and she just barely registered someone offering her a spare gown and putting it on before she stormed from the bathhouse, holding her own dress close and refusing to let her tears be seen.

She needed privacy. She needed to think.

Her legs wanted to carry her up a snowy mountain, to trudge her through waist-deep powder until she reached a summit from which nobody could hear her scream from the frustration. But no such place existed here, and instead she was racing through caverns and halls that suddenly made no sense. And someone might have tried to stop her, for she could have sworn she heard her name being called, but her step only hastened – and she eventually found herself in her secret garden, where the flowers were always in bloom.

Yet, as she burst forth into the garden, nearly tripping over her own feet in her need to get away….she stopped and held her breath, not daring to interrupt the image she saw before her: the outline of a man bathed in starlight, unmistakably Thranduil, whose pale skin seemed to glow from within…whose ice-blue eyes turned, awakened from their reverie, to her.

"My lord," she said. "W–what are you doing here?"

He raised a brow. "This is my wife's garden."

Aínwar had never realized. All this time, she'd been allowed to come into this space, and nobody had said anything.

Had he known?

"I am so, so sorry," she whispered, feeling her neck grow hot. "I had no idea. I'll – I'll go…"

"No," said Thranduil, gesturing to the bench. "Stay."

And he said it with such gentle but firm authority that she was immediately compelled to sit. Hands folded behind his back, he returned his attention to the sky, and from her place she could see the glittering stars reflected in his eyes. The air was frigid but windless, and she sat there, not knowing what to say…or if she should say anything at all, lest she disturb the peaceful quiet.

"What are you hiding behind your back?" he asked.

"Nothing, my lord."

Thranduil crouched down in front of her. She met his piercing gaze, expecting it to be strife with displeasure, and ready to fight against it if need be…but where she anticipated fire, she saw only calming, blue water…and it washed over her, carrying her away in a cradle of salt and singing waves.

"Show me," he said.

Lulled by the music of his voice, she withdrew the soiled dress. He took it from her, expressionlessly processing what had happened. As he turned it over in his hands, she tried to explain, her words quickly spiraling out of control: "I was in the bathhouse…and I found it this way…I don't know who or – or when, a-and I have also discovered bugs, and they've been – they – I don't know why–"

Thranduil stood with an air of conclusivity. Then he reached out and wiped away the tear upon her cheek, a gesture so quick that she would have wondered if they had ever made contact at all if not for the lingering warmth on her skin.

"I have no doubt that Elyón can handle it," he said. "Let's walk back together, and give it to her then."

"No!" Aínwar exclaimed, perhaps too forcefully. "No, I…not yet. I want to stay here…just for a little longer. Please."

She wanted to remember this forever: how his hair outshined the moon, draping over his shoulders like a cascade of starlight…the heat of his touch still alight on her face…the vivid memory of his lips upon hers, even if only in a dream, reawakened by his closeness in proximity, and just…just having him all to herself.

Just like this.

"Then we shall stay...if that is what you wish," he decided, lost in thoughts that she couldn't read. He sat next to her, touching a frost-covered bulb in contemplation.

She shyly averted her eyes. "Did you know I was coming here?"

"Of course."

"And you said nothing?"

"You gave me no reason to," he said simply.

"I hope I didn't bring insult to your wife–"

"You have brought nothing but respect to her." Thranduil paused, withdrawing his frost-dusted fingers from the flower. "Êlúriel, she…she was remarkable. A wonderful queen, and an even better mother to our son. But she had an adventurous streak. I could tell her to stay out of harm's way…away from…" He trailed off again, eyes pained. "Well, she was very stubborn. You would have loved her, and she likely would have loved you. She would have never agreed to keep you as Mirkwood's prisoner."

"I am no prisoner," Aínwar said, like she had said to herself over and over before. Locked in the dungeons. In her bedroom. On the balcony, from where she could see the entire expanse of the world before her, unreachable.

But this time…it felt different.

"No, you're not," Thranduil agreed. "In fact, I was thinking…well, in the next few weeks, Darothil and a few other guards will be accompanying my merchants to Esgaroth. We trade with them often and have assembled a routine of sorts, so that business can be conducted without the back-and-forth travel…but once or twice a year someone must go and do the actual paperwork. It's a tedious and exhaustive effort, and will take a few weeks at least. Would you want to accompany them?"

Aínwar was taken aback. "To Esgaroth? You…you would trust me to leave?"

"Why not?"

"Alone…with Darothil, nonetheless! For such a long time!"

"It might be good for you," he said. "You have been locked up in my kingdom for half a year with naught but a little sunshine here and there. There might be some trouble along the way, I don't doubt that…but with all your training and the glamor to protect you, alongside my most trusted guards, as irrational and irresponsible some of them can be …well, I thought you would like the offer."

She remained wary. "You really would let me go?"

He angled towards her, his voice taking on a measured tone far too level for the turbulence in his eyes. "If you promise to come back, of course."

Somehow, she thought that this promise did not only apply to her visit to Esgaroth.

"Thranduil, I…" she began.

And just like that, she was once again lost in the depths of his gaze. Just like that, she did not want to leave. He could open the front gates and tell her to go, and she would not. She wanted to stay, and would submit herself to being called all sorts of names – prisoner, dirty, witch – whatever it would take to remain here by his side. Even as a friend or a citizen of his kingdom, no different than any other woman of the bathhouse. It mattered not, she – she…

Stop that! she ordered herself, her clarity reluctantly returning to her.

Her dragons. Her quest. There was no abandoning that. Ever. And she had no choice in the matter: she had to go to Esgaroth. To prove to herself that she could leave. To prove that her will was not controlled by a man, who might never know in the end how much she cherished him…who might never know, in a world of visions and dreams, that they loved each other. But even if the Ages passed, or cities of old fell…even if she crossed the meridian of a world still unknown to her, far from his woodland realm…

"I would always come back," she swore.

"I know," said Thranduil, smiling faintly, "which is why I'm letting you go."

x

"I would always come back," said Aínwar.

Thranduil felt an immeasurable sense of gravity in her promise. She meant it. This, he knew. Beyond that, he now knew with greater certainty that she stayed by choice. It had rattled him since his meeting with the grey wizard, the fear that she would soon realize her chains were nonexistent and leave Mirkwood with naught a trace. After seeing her so clearly, sophysically, like light given form…he couldn't bear for his halls to be that empty ever again.

"I know," he said, withholding a sigh of relief, "which is why I'm letting you go."

"The next few weeks, you said?" she asked.

"As soon as accommodations for travel and shelter are made. You and the others will go on horseback, guarding the merchants from the ground as they sail down the river…" He looked at her, gauging her reaction. "Did you like your gift?"

Her eyes lit up. "You mean Súlimo?"

"So you've named him already," said Thranduil, amused.

"Nüllewen told me that he needed to be ridden before earning one," she said earnestly, "but look at his legs! I bet he can run faster than any mount in those stables. Quicker than the wind, even. So I named him after your king of the Valar, so that his gait might be blessed by the gods themselves, and carry us away should we ever run into trouble."

"It's a suitable name, and an excellent one at that."

"I have learned already to care for his needs," Aínwar continued, seeming to talk faster and more excitedly with every word, "and he's such a wonderful companion. I can't wait until we've come to know one another, so that he may let me sit astride his back and ride him. Although…" She paused, paling a degree. "It seems there is much to do now, between my lessons and reading Gandalf's book and Súlimo's care…and…and…"

Thranduil sat up straighter, a little alarmed. "Have you had fire today?"

She laughed sheepishly, but even he could hear the exhaustion in her voice. "I meant to go after my bath, before the library…and then…well, I ended up here, and it's rather cold outside…"

Without hesitation, he removed his outermost layer of robes and swung it over her trembling body; though she was tall, the shimmering silver coat completely drowned her, and for a moment, he almost laughed at how tiny and miserable she looked, like a kitten shivering in the rain.

"Here," he said decisively, leaving no room for protest. "This will keep you warm until you get back to your bedroom."

She withdrew into his robes and gently fingered the fabric, wearing an indecipherable expression. "But..."

"You must remember to take care of yourself, first and foremost," he said in a tone that reminded him of Elyón's parental chastising. One he hadn't used since Legolas' adolescence. Then an idea occurred to him. "Mereth nuin giliath. The Feast of Starlight."

"That must be the party the women in the bathhouse spoke of," she said, smothering a yawn into his robes. When she emerged, her eyes were bleary and pink.

"Your friends haven't told you of it?" he asked.

She suddenly frowned. "You know, Thranduil, I spend far more time with you than you think!" she said, looking properly irked. "At this point, I consider it your responsibility to educate me on the ways of your people! I have no idea how these things work. What if I'd totally made a fool of myself?"

"And, tell me," he said, rolling his eyes, "how would you have gone about that?"

"From what I've gathered, one needs a special dress, no? And a partner to attend with. Of which I have neither!"

"You don't need them," said Thranduil, thinking it strange she had never known the customs of feasts and merrymaking. Did she not celebrate begettings or birthdays? Solstices? "It would be a fun and lively way to relax. I suggest that you take an evening for yourself and go."

Aínwar looked at him pointedly. "Are you?"

Thranduil hadn't attended a public event for many years, preferring the quiet of his study with a goblet of wine in hand. More often than not, he would end up rather disinterested before the night was half over, unable to keep up with the constant onslaught of small talk that found him every time. The few and far between occasions that he had gone, he had watched from a distance, enjoying the chaos far more when he wasn't involved.

And he did not dance.

"No," he said, sounding far too guilty.

"I will if you do," she said seriously. "Oh, don't give me that look. I have a feeling that you need to get out as much as I do. Elyón has told me all about it..." She raised her eyebrows at him, completely unimpressed by his deadpan response. "If we would rather leave, then we can leave together. We can read in your study, and you can say 'I told you so' all you want. And I'll never invite you to anything else!"

He truly wondered if she didn't understand the social implications of going to and leaving a party together. It was all very endearing, somehow. Not that he minded anyway – he couldn't care less about what others thought of him and Aínwar spending time with one another, and had given up any and all reservations about such closeness with her the first day they had gone to the library together.

Thranduil felt a bizarre turn in his stomach.

"I have the distinct feeling that you will either hound me until I agree," he said, "or give up going altogether if I refuse to accompany you."

"Absolutely right."

Thranduil sighed in a vain attempt to hide a smile.

Seized by the throat, indeed…

TBC