Starlight

TA 2940, October 7th.

At the last possible moment, Aínwar swung her blade up in defense — and through the silver blocking her eyes and the grind of steel ringing in her ears, she saw Darothil on the other side, grinning.

"Good!" he exclaimed, eyes brimming with excitement.

He jumped back, dancing from foot to foot, then arced his own blade in a long sweep of aggressive offense. Their swords clashed again, creating a pure, high-pitched frequency that sung throughout the training room, a sound that she had grown oddly fond of over the months. Once she parried him, he stepped backwards again and nodded, indicating that their session was finished.

Hands on his hips, Darothil watched as she wiped the sweat from her brow. "You have the sequences committed to memory."

She panted heavily, though she noticed that her breathing was not quite as shallow and winded as before. "But will it save me in battle?" she asked, sheathing the sword. "A real one?"

"Against a mortal human? Absolutely."

"But not an orc," Aínwar sighed, and with a smile she added, "nor an elf."

"An orc, perhaps," he said, shrugging. "You're far stronger — and faster — than you think. Perhaps you have the blood of a warrior running on your father's side, or maybe these traits were bestowed to you at Zenta'ganna's transformation and passed down from your mother." He smiled ruefully. "But you're right. Never against an elf."

"Let's hope I will never have to fight one, then."

"We can't be sure of that — Nüllewen has seemed rather moody as of late. And don't be fooled by her aristocratic exterior, for she can wield a blade as lethally as any of us. How goes your riding lessons, anyway?"

Aínwar sighed again as she returned the longsword to a rack upon the wall. Súlimo had proven to be the perfect mount, especially for a beginner. The first time she had climbed on his back and walked him about, she had felt tall and proud. He was sweet and good-natured, willing to please, and confident in his step, but even he could not deny his biological tendencies.

Just the other day, Nüllewen had been dusting off saddle pads and flapped them far too vigorously in the wind, just next to the riding arena — Súlimo had widened his eyes and spooked violently to the side, and before knowing it, Aínwar had hit the ground. And again, she would not consider herself prone to paranoia…but that was exactly what she had thought of the women in the bathhouse, and look how that had turned out.

"I can get on and off," she said, "and stay on when he trots, although I must look very much like a chicken with my elbows flapping about. That's the extent of it, really."

He grinned. "Now that I would like to see."

"You're more than welcome to come watch. Then perhaps I will have a witness when Nüllewen decides she's had her fun and that it's time to off me once and for all."

"Oh, come now, little faelug," he said, slinging an arm around her. She leaned miserably into him, grateful for his embrace. "I know you have been feeling rather down lately, but the few enemies you've made here are only jealous that you command the king's attention at your beck and call—"

"Darothil—" she cautioned.

"—and that you somehow managed to acquire his escort to the Feast of Starlight—"

Her face reddened. "How do you know that?"

"—and that you will look most beautiful and royal next to the king himself, and they will wonder with their pathetic little egos how a northern wildling could ever become queen," he continued, only smiling wider when she pulled away from his arms and playfully slapped his chest. "And, just in the nick of time, Elyón has finished cleaning your dress, and it's good as new! She said she'll bring it to you after your bath."

Aínwar suspiciously raised a brow. "And how do you know that?"

"She told me herself, of course."

"Not in bed, I hope."

Darothil put on a theatrical display of looking insulted. "Honestly, Aínwar. You think that I would ever sink as low to make a woman like Elyón feel slighted and unimportant?"

"So you're officially courting her then?"

"Well, I wouldn't go as far to say that," he said. At her less than impressed response, he quickly added, "I only think that she…that she's…" His blue eyes momentarily glazed over. "She's pretty and sweet and hardworking, and has a level head on her shoulders. And…I couldn't help but notice how she came to you in your time of loneliness — when nobody else did."

"You did."

"Tauriel too. Even my tight wadded cousin. I think, somehow, your arrival in Mirkwood has made me see with clearer eyes. The first night we met, I saw you as nothing more than orc scum. I wanted to hurt you. Then Tauriel stayed my hand, and confronted you with such courage…and, of all the things that shocked me, even kindness."

He grew quiet. They watched the archers in comfortable silence.

"As I came to know you," he eventually said, "I found that the fault was never yours — but mine, for being a coward. I saw friends of mine — good elves, to whom I would entrust my life — shrink in their fear. They said disgusting things and turned their backs when you needed little more than a friend. Those who did face their fears, guided by the heart of compassion…they shine differently. They stand out."

Aínwar smiled. "Like Elyón."

"Yes..." Darothil said. "Very much like Elyón."

She imagined them beside each other. Two forces of power, of warmth and safety, in her life. Two forces that had never occupied the same space…at least, in her own world. As she fabricated what that might look like, she began to see the appeal. And, for as much as she had heard the rumors — that Darothil was an incessant and unapologetic flirt, and had been since his adolescence — she had never heard him mention, or even seen him, with another woman.

"Well," she said, unable to help falling into his embrace again. She rested her head on his shoulder, and she felt him chuckle beneath her. "I think you two would make an excellent pair."

"You think so?" he asked quickly. She stifled a giggle at just how expressive he really was. Like a puppy she had seen in a children's book, eyes all big and watery. "I haven't told her of my affections. I fear she won't take me seriously."

"If she doesn't know yet, she must be blind. Have you thought to invite her to the feast tonight?"

He visibly sulked, and she suppressed the very bizarre urge to hug him and pet his hair. "I heard from Althidion that she's busy tonight and had no plans to attend," he said despondently. "I didn't want to be a distraction—"

"But did you ask her?" Aínwar pressed. "Directly? She could never know your intentions otherwise — for all you know, she could be awaiting your invitation most eagerly."

Darothil gave her a lopsided grin. "And when did you become such an expert on the art of courtship? You may not be queen of Mirkwood yet, but you are without a doubt the queen of ambiguity!"

It was true: she could follow her own advice and be more transparent with Thranduil about her feelings, but she liked to think — though they were perhaps haughty and overreactive thoughts, anyway — that her relationship with the Elvenking was far more complicated than any random courtship. There were kingdoms involved, and she had to think of the dragons…and he had lovers already, who probably worshipped the ground he walked upon…and, of course, she would be gone by the end of next year, and…and…

"Slow down!" said Darothil, laughing heartily. "I can see your mind moving quicker than a springtime storm—"

"How funny, coming from you."

He jokingly shoved her away, and she laughed and pushed him back. "You're right," he said, just as he avoided her last punch. "There's still work to do before we are guaranteed such things. Come, now…let me escort you back to your quarters. There are only few hours left to prepare."

"As if I will look any different!" she said. "I have no special dress and nothing to do with this silly hair of mine. I highly doubt that the king will find me any prettier than before, if he ever did at all."

"Oh, Aínwar..." he sighed pityingly. "And you say Elyón is the blind one."

x

Aínwar stared at herself in the mirror. With a soft mutter, she removed the glamor, and with a blink, her horns and scales had returned. She contemplated the change for a moment, then donned the pendant again — and still, she could not decide. Frustrated, she tore it from her neck and tossed it to the bed, glaring at it all the while.

A knock sounded at her door. "My lady, may I come in?"

"Yes, please!" she called. As Elyón happily entered with Zenta'ganna's dress folded in her arms, Aínwar masked her face with a look of feign surprise. "Just in time! I was so worried I'd have nothing to wear, and I could not bear to go in anything else. Let me see."

She held up the gown, letting the skirt tumble to the floor...and nearly gasped.

"After I washed the dirt from the fabric, I checked in with the seamstress every day to ensure every bead was replaced," Elyón said proudly. She demonstrated the changes by excitedly pointing at each modification. "See here? How she added these patterns along the waistline? And look there — the detailing around the sleeves? Oh, oh, and you cannot miss the pearls along the straps. How elegant!"

It was indeed the same dress as before, but altered with obvious care. Aínwar's eyes roamed over it, heart fluttering. A fragment of her imagination wandered…aimlessly drifting to thoughts of how dignified she would look alongside Thranduil…then she wondered what he would wear, particularly dreaming about how much she loved him in reds…what he would think of the changes, or if he would even notice.

"It—" she began, searching for the words. "It's perfect."

"It's no secret that you'll be attending the feast with the king. It didn't take much swaying for the seamstress to prioritize your dress over the others." She chuckled beneath her breath. "Here, let me help."

Aínwar braced herself against the bedframe. "Will you be going?" she asked, holding in a grunt as the fabric tightened around her waist.

"Not tonight," Elyón said regretfully. Aínwar could have sworn she saw her friend's wistful smile reflected in the mirror, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "There's still so much to do. The king has been leaving his study in such a disarray recently.…and I have nobody to go with, of course."

She turned her head around, as far as it could go. "What about Darothil?" she asked, damning ambiguity on the behalf of her friends. Perhaps she would never confess her secrets to Thranduil, but she refused to let them suffer as she did…even if it wasn't really her business in the end.

Elyón stopped tightening the lace, wearing a severe yet amused look. "And what about him?"

"He's a friend I love dearly," she said, once again feigning ignorance, "and he has no lady to escort. Oh, you would love him. He is funny and very strong, and devilishly handsome too—"

"I know who Darothil is." Elyón resumed binding the bodice, slightly more aggressive than before. "I know exactly what game you're playing at—" at this, Aínwar only grinned. "—and I told you already. I'm busy."

"Consider it, at least?"

"My lady—"

"Please, Elyón," she said, making eye contact with her through the mirror. "If not to go with Darothil, then at least for yourself. You work so hard, day and night…and you have always been there when I needed you, no matter what. But you always push me to help Thranduil, to urge him to take care of himself, body and soul. Just…just don't forget to take care of yourself too."

Elyón averted her eyes for a moment. "Alright, my lady. I'll remember that." Then she stepped back, admiring her work on the laces. "There you go. Beautiful as ever."

Aínwar stepped back and turned in the mirror. The dress seemed to fit better than ever, and was far more elaborate and rich with design, despite maintaining the same practical comfort from before. She ran her fingers along the bodice, brushing her fingers along the pearls, whose splendid luminosity would surely lure the eye. It brought a smile to her face.

She leaned forward and fixed the stray curls around her horns, then glanced at the pendant upon the bed…reached for it, then stopped.

Not tonight, she thought.

"I suppose it's no different from before?" she asked timidly.

"Some things are meant to be everlasting," said Elyón, taking Aínwar's slightly trembling hand. "The culture of elvenkind is built around this profound sense of timelessness. Stagnancy does not bore us, and especially not our king — it will only remind him that you are a force of enduring beauty. Now…you should go. He waits."

Aínwar nodded mutely and stood for a while longer, even after Elyón had left. She looked again in the mirror, inhaling deeply, birthing and evoking a sense of courage only recently discovered — the kind she needed to once again look Thranduil in the eyes as if she didn't love him. And she was sure that she had failed many times before, and still had many times ahead — but she could try.

She had to.

The moment she opened her bedroom door, she saw him across the hall, softly closing his own. Her breath caught itself behind her lips as she looked upon him…

Beautiful: persistently, objectively…achingly.

And — just as Elyón had said — no different than before, and somehow more beautiful because of it. He wore the same robes of mahogany and silver silk threadings she had seen many times, and the exact same crown of autumn berries…his eyes of diamond-blue and hair of starlight, unchanged. Unchanged and perfect. It nearly tore her apart, being witness to it.

As he turned and saw her standing there, his brows quirked slightly upward. "I see Elyón had some alterations arranged."

"She did," said Aínwar with a downward glance.

"And you're not wearing your glamor."

Doubt suddenly gripped her. "Should I have?" she asked, her hand leaping to her naked collarbone. "I thought…I…I can go get it, it's on my bed—"

"No," Thranduil said, and his command wove its fingers tight through every string in her body, instantly stopping her; her hand hovered above the doorknob, unmoving but hot like fire. "It...it isn't the 'you' that I know."

She smiled softly. "Then shall we go?"

As they had many times, they walked mostly in silence together, their pace one of leisure and deliberation. Aínwar saw how the halls of Mirkwood were stirring with activity, feeling like the air was similar to that before a storm — electrified and tense. The hairs on her neck prickle with heat.

"And when exactly," she curiously wondered, "was the last time you attended one of these feasts?"

"More than three hundred years past, I'm sure."

She frowned. "I'm bringing you to your first party in three hundred years?"

Thranduil smiled, though his gaze remained forward. "You're inspiring many 'firsts' in my life, actually."

As they crossed over the bridge leading to the hall of festivities, Aínwar stopped in her tracks, shocked. The space, a chasm wider and vaster than any room she had seen yet, was crammed full of elves. Their outfits ranged from sparkling, trailing gowns for the higher-bred men and women, to dirty armor for those who had probably come during a short break from their duties — and everything in between. Tables upon tables lavishly presented food and drink, and in the middle of the room was a chaotic conglomeration of music, dancing, and singing.

Through the ceiling of roots and branches, the constellations shimmered brighter than ever. Her heart leaped at the sight, in appreciation of elvenkind and how they so loved their stars.

She had sat atop Dùn Ga'thuum many times, feeling a sort of kindred connection to the skies and all their distant treasures…asking them for wisdom and for mercy, especially in her younger years. Only after so many lonely centuries did she begin to cherish their soundless brilliance, to find a fulfilling companionship in their omnipresence. And again, she remembered Elyón's words: Some things are meant to be everlasting. The culture of elvenkind is built around this profound sense of timelessness.

She thought she understood now.

"Aínwar!" exclaimed a voice from behind.

She turned to see Tauriel, accompanied by a large host of the guard. They bowed to their king, a chorus of respectful elvish greetings passing over them. A smile broke over her face at the sight and only grew wider as the crowd parted to reveal, surprisingly, prince Legolas.

In the many months that had passed since, having not seen him once since the council's meeting in the throne room, she had nearly forgotten how stunningly handsome he was, even in a form far more simplistic than that of his father. He was dressed in a light green tunic, and a simple white circlet sat upon his pale, groomed hair. Hand over his heart, he greeted Aínwar, a tender look in his eye.

And though she meant to say something — to ask him about his work on the border, or how long he planned to stay, maybe — she stopped herself when she saw how he and Thranduil locked themselves into deep, meaningful, and utterly indecipherable eye contact…she almost suspected they could read each other's minds, as Galadriel could.

She speculated on this language of tense silence, wondering what they could possible be saying…until she felt Tauriel's hand grasp her by the elbow and, interrupted from her thoughts, sunk into her embrace.

"I see it written all over your face," said Tauriel quietly. She smiled. "But tonight isn't for that."

"You're right," she exhaled, not realizing how she had been holding her breath. She had no idea what 'it' was, but did not doubt that Tauriel could read her as easily as an open book. Elves were endearingly insufferable in that sort of way. "I have no idea where to start. Where should I begin?"

"With this, obviously!"

And suddenly, Darothil was standing in between them, a red and obviously drunk smile plastered all over his face. He sloppily presented her with a goblet, the red liquid inside nearly sloshing over the edges.

"Have you ever had the pleasure of tasting Dorwinion wine?" he asked.

Aínwar took the goblet. She brought it to her nose, inhaling the drink's strong, tangy aroma. Then, without hesitation, she lifted the goblet to her lips and drank deeply, tilting her head nearly all the way back to finish it. Though it stung her throat, the wine had a delicious fruity taste that warmed her insides. Wiping her lips, she lowered the goblet — only to see their expressions: some aghast, some downright horrified, and others, such as Darothil, boggled with absolute glee.

"I wasn't supposed to do that?" she asked sheepishly.

Thranduil scowled. "What have you been teaching her?"

"Don't ask me, my lord," said Darothil, grinning widely. "You're the wine-lover. I'll fetch another!"

Then he jubilantly bounded off with her empty cup.

Tauriel sighed, exasperated. "I need to find Eltarluin before anyone else is saddled with the unfortunate job of babysitting him tonight," she said. She glanced between Aínwar and Thranduil, a spark in her eyes. "I would love to show you around, my dear friend, but…well…such things are better suited for your date, no?"

"Tauriel," Aínwar whispered helplessly, "please, I—"

But the red-haired captain reassuringly squeezed her arm, and with an uncharacteristically mischievous smile, went on her way. The rest of the guard ambled after her, eventually dispersing into the crowd to seek their own pleasures. Legolas bowed to his father once again, and he too disappeared.

Aínwar had been alone with Thranduil on many occasions. Truly alone…in the early hours of the morning, when all else had surrendered to sleep, or behind closed doors, where nobody had ever breached their intimate privacy. They had spent hours — entire days, even — without interrupting the silence with a single word…but somehow, even in the midst of all these people, she felt far more vulnerable than ever, and could not explain it.

They stood at the edges of the room, watching everyone else sing and dance. And though she was greatly entertained by all the festivities, finding herself clapping and singing along, grateful to be there…she distinctly felt the gravity of Thranduil's presence beside her, pulling her back, and away from all distractions.

Just like he always did, and without ever meaning to.

Her eyes slid over to him...and immediately jumped back, seeing that his own had already been on her.

"Darothil seems to have taken a liking to you," he said shortly after, sounding questionably nonchalant.

"Nonsense," she said, unsure if the creeping heat in her neck was from bashfulness or the alcohol. She would be lying if she claimed to have never thought about Darothil through a romantic lens…he was incredibly handsome, after all, and he never failed to make her laugh. And if she looked into his eyes long enough, she might have been able to imagine that he was the man from her visions…but she knew that was not the truth, and could never believe it wholeheartedly. "I love him, but in friendship only, and I know he feels the same way about me. We're too different."

On cue, Darothil appeared and handed her another cup with a rambunctious, "Here, take this!" but before she could thank him, he was distracted by a new round of dancing and had already skipped away.

She laughed and took another drink, sipping it delicately this time.

"Why would you say that?" Thranduil asked. His voice had lowered, weighted by something she could not distinguish. "Is it so difficult to believe that you might be able to start a life here?"

"It's crossed my mind many times," she admitted.

Thranduil faced her and she was startled by his expression, far too serious compared to the festive backdrop. "You would be safe here," he said, "away from the world and all who would dare hurt you. I could give you your own living quarters. You could find work wherever you pleased. And…and find love, perhaps. He said it himself: you're one of them now, and any citizen of mine is entitled to these things. Your race matters not."

The cup hovered at her lips. "It seems that you've misunderstood me, my lord," she said softly. "I'm deserving of love and acceptance, and never have I thought the contrary. No amount of petty bullying could ever make me feel lesser. I'm proud of who I am, and that shall never change."

He contemplated this in silence.

"I meant that we are different in other ways," she continued, trying and failing to explain. Her second drink was swiftly diminishing, and her mind becoming even more rapidly addled. "I…I can't find the words for it. I suppose you would understand, having known love. How it affects the atmosphere. How it affects time…and the very fabric of the world around you, making things behave in manners most unusual. Do — do you know what I mean?"

"Yes," he said. There was a curious lilt to his tone. "You seem to understand perfectly — what it means to be in love."

"I think so," she said quietly, feeling his eyes boring into the side of her head. Her lips kept moving of their own accord, making her say things she wouldn't have dared to in sobriety. But still, she continued to drink. "I think it has overtaken me. It consumes my waking world. My dreams, too. My heart is not the same as it was when I came here. It refuses the sound judgment of my mind. They contest with one another, fighting for control."

Thranduil was silent again. Aínwar was feeling rather muddy in the head now, but there was a pleasant tingling sensation now spreading all the way from her crown to the tips of her toes. She was rather inspired to giggle at absolutely nothing, or to lay down and take a nap.

"Perhaps you don't need to be in control," he finally said. "I am sure the object of your affections wouldn't protest."

"Oh, now that is a terrible idea! I already have so much trouble admitting it to myself…surely, you can understand that too? How it seems so difficult to say it aloud, even to yourself?"

"...I do."

"And how," she asked, "does one even begin to do that? To say aloud what is in the heart?"

She thought Thranduil might have opened his mouth to respond, but Darothil had randomly appeared again. He was quite good at that, she thought. Suspiciously good. "With more drink, my lady," he said excitedly, bowing and presenting her with a third cup of wine.

"At this rate, you naughty elf, he'll know before the end of the night!"

"Is that such a bad thing? Come to the dancefloor! Perhaps the music will shake your walls and give you the courage you need to seduce your paramour."

Aínwar very much doubted she could ever seduce Thranduil, and secretly laughed to herself as she imagined it. She turned to him. "Dance with me," she said suddenly, compelled by a newfound sense of bravery blossoming in her chest.

"No," he said shortly. "We talked about this."

She downed the rest of her wine. "Fine then. Have it your way."

With a grin bordering on drunken madness, she tossed the empty goblet to the side and swept out onto the dancefloor, her golden gown trailing behind her as she took Darothil's open hand.

x

Thranduil watched with stunned amazement as Aínwar lifted the ends of her dress and began to move her feet.

At first, she partnered with Darothil — the two of them grabbed hands and swung about, their flimsy grips on one another barely holding on as they picked up the momentum. She twirled and twirled, her smile unconfined and her hair unbound, and spanning from her chest up the length of her neck her skin had flushed with both drink and sweat.

Though it was a drunken mess, it was an intoxicating one: an elf from the guard lifted her skirt and howled good-naturedly; then Tauriel took Aínwar's hands and spun her around until they collapsed into one another's arms; and they eventually all joined in dance, simultaneously messy and synchronized. He saw her losing herself in the trance of elven merrymaking — at times, her eyes would float up to the ceiling, as if holding onto the stars for dear life, and other times, she would return with full clarity, laughing joyfully.

Somebody handed her another drink, and though she spilled nearly half of it all over herself, everyone only laughed and clapped her on the back. Then she downed it without stopping. Darothil planted a kiss on her cheek for the show, and they started the dance all over again.

Hours passed in this unending cycle.

At one point, though he had been too captivated to notice, Legolas had appeared next to him with his own drink in hand. Thranduil inclined his head in greeting.

"Things are very different from when I left," Legolas remarked, smirking into his cup. "Especially you."

"I'm getting used to hearing that."

They silently studied Aínwar, who had somehow gotten herself involved in what looked to be a drinking competition with Darothil. Even Tauriel, infamous for refusing any sort of spirits, had joined in. Some of the guard were clapping, yelling their names and taking bets.

"Even that far deep into the dungeons…" Legolas began, "and wearing a prisoner's gown…I already thought she was bright and full of life. But now, the change is dazzling. A brilliant sun in a sea of stars. And I can tell by the light in your eyes that you too have been blinded—" When Thranduil's eyes fractionally narrowed, the prince shook his head. "Don't take insult, adar. It's a welcome change…for those who care about your wellbeing, at least."

Thranduil looked at his son — really looked at him — for the first time in what felt like a millennia. Even there, scattered throughout his features, he could see Êlúriel's nose, the point of her ears…

"Legolas, I—"

"You have nothing to apologize for. You would not scorn my mother's name if you ever admitted to caring for another. She would be happy for you." His melancholy gaze returned to Aínwar. "We don't need to pretend that she's still alive. You've spent a thousand years in waiting, preserving her memory…but she's gone now. And she wouldn't have wanted you to waste another moment of your immortal life, waiting in darkness, refusing the sunlight of tomorrow."

Thranduil frowned. "Aínwar is young."

"Four hundred years nearly, and could you argue that she has the same frivolous attitude of ellith her age?"

"She's not from here, she–"

"Adar," Legolas interrupted tightly, and his own blue eyes were so filled with pleading that Thranduil could not argue. "Unless I misheard, weren't you just telling her that she's entitled to all the joys of life, same as anyone else here? You find her perfectly worthy of happiness and love. It seems to me that you are the one denying yourself these privileges."

Thranduil was feeling rather moody by then and had little else to contribute.

Aínwar came stumbling back with tears of laughter in her eyes, and Eltarluin was guiding her by the elbow. "Oh, Legolas!" she exclaimed, clearly drunk. She almost stumbled into the prince, meaning to embrace him, but was restrained at the last second. "I'm so happy you've returned!"

Legolas smiled, his eyes sparkling. "It's good to be back. I'm happy to see you've made yourself quite at home in our kingdom."

"It's high time she goes to bed, my lord," Eltarluin said, looking severe. "My cousin failed to remember that she's never indulged in drink before and cannot keep up. I turned my back for only a moment and before I knew it, they'd gone from wine to brandy."

"I'll take her," Thranduil said with a roll of his eyes.

Her eyes lit up. "Where are we going?"

"To bed." He gave Legolas a stern look. "Come, let's go."

x

Despite her drunkenness, Aínwar could see that the halls of Mirkwood were sad and barren, especially compared to the liveliness of the party they had left behind. She stumbled after Thranduil, who already had such a slow and purposeful pace, trying to keep up but finding herself out of breath…all she could do was keep an eye on his back, mildly fascinated by the shimmer of his robes. Her feet threatened to give out underneath her.

"I was having so much fun," she said in lament. "Why did we leave?"

Thranduil kept walking, inclining his head every few moments to make sure she was still there. "Because you can hardly stand on your own two feet."

On cue, she nearly tripped over the folds of her dress, but she managed to make a miraculous recovery. "I need a break," she complained, feeling like the world was spinning all around her. Lights seemed very bright and the sound of rushing water far too loud. "Can we sit for a moment, please?"

"No."

"But there is a nice ledge right there! Perfect for a sit!"

"You'll thank me once you're in your own bed."

But whatever she had in her stomach was crashing about now, from side to side, and she was feeling sloppy and nauseous. How she had managed to dance so enthusiastically and not pass out was a major wonder. "Thranduil, I really must sit," she said breathily, and she ambled over to the ledge anyway and plopped herself down. With a voice edging on a moan, she told nobody in particular, "I don't understand…I only drank as much as everyone else and they were fine!"

With a chuckle, Thranduil reached a hand out to her. "Will you make it?" he asked, but all she could do was stare at his palm, marveling over the pretty lines of his fingers.

Aínwar dizzily glanced up at him. He was beginning to look very fuzzy, but even through her wavering vision she could still see her favorite parts of his face: the grey wisps in his dark brows, the sweep of his eyelashes, the pointed bow of his upper lip, which she thought she wanted to kiss very much…her eyes drifted down the line of his hair, wishing she could touch it, just to see if it was as soft as it looked…

"You…" she began dreamily, as if her words weren't her own. "You are so beautiful."

She couldn't see his reaction, but she did hear him say, "And you are drunk."

"You stupid, silly king!" She attempted to take his hand, but as he pulled her up, her legs turned to liquid and she fell right back onto her bottom. "I could tell you all of my secrets and still you wouldn't believe me…" she added with a grumble.

"I'd be more inclined to believe them if you were sound of mind," he said firmly. "Now can you walk, or shall I carry you?"

Aínwar could see the edges of her vision turning to black. "No, no, I can do this," she said determinedly, waving him away. Yet as she tried to stand for a second time, her knees completely gave out…and the ground was rushing towards her too quickly for her to catch herself —

But just before she collapsed to the floor, she felt Thranduil's arms sweep beneath her body and lift her up high. Lost in a darkness threatening to consume her, she found herself overwhelmed by his smell — familiar spice and rainwater —and how solid his chest felt against her. When she blinked her eyes open, she was mere inches from his face. A devilish urge in her wanted to press her lips to his, to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.

"Where are we going?" Aínwar wondered, feeling flushed and hot all over.

"To your bedroom, just like I said."

"We should go to yours!"

He looked amused. "It is in both your interest and mine to ensure you wake up in the morning without any regrets."

"Pfft," she said, her head rolling back. "You're doing it again. Putting words into my mouth. You don't know anything about me. Anything at all…"

For a moment, she thought that she had dozed off into a deep slumber, but when her eyes opened again, she was still cradled in Thranduil's arms. Though his words were abstract and nonsensical, she could hear him talking to someone…but all her focus was on the powerful and very pleasant rumble coursing from his chest and throughout her whole body. How she loved his voice, so melodious and with a rhythm of its own, as if all he ever said was written in poetry.

Somewhere in the background, she vaguely heard Elyón saying, "I cannot say I didn't expect this," and Aínwar nearly leapt from his arms with newfound enthusiasm, suddenly wishing very much to give her friend a hug.

"Oh, Elyón!" she exclaimed happily, thinking that she should have brought Darothil along on this fun little excursion. He would have loved to see her too, and she was looking so pretty, with that adorable heart-shaped face of hers... "How I've missed you! Why weren't you at the feast?"

Elyón smiled, completely unruffled. "Do you need me to take her, my lord?"

"Wait, wait, where are you taking me?" she asked, nearly about to burst out in protest. Did Elyón not see how comfortable she was, how easily Thranduil was carrying her around? "Will we be returning to the party? I would most love to do another round of dancing, and I could use another drink."

"What you need is sleep," said Thranduil, much to her disappointment. "I can handle her. Take the rest of the evening for yourself. Good night."

"Have fun, Elyón!" Aínwar called as they walked through the doors. Once they shut, she erupted into a fit of sleepy giggles, though her enthusiasm was quickly dissipating. "Darothil told me himself that he finds her very beautiful," she added with a yawn, and she leaned up against his chest, meaning to fall asleep then and there. "I think it'll be no time at all before they fall madly in love."

"Is that so?"

"Hold on, you're going to the wrong bedroom…" she sluggishly protested, already forgetting what she had just been talking about. "I thought we were going to yours?"

"I never said that," chuckled Thranduil, looking genuinely entertained now. He laid her gently onto the bed and pulled the covers over her. "Who's putting words into whose mouth again?"

Though she was still dressed, Aínwar could not muster the energy to undo the bodice, knowing how difficult the lace could be. "You're laughing at me," she said, scowling at nothing…she could sense him moving about the room but could not tell where he was anymore, and she greatly wished he would return to her side. "That's not fair. You bring dozens of other women there..."

"Dozens?"

She snuggled beneath the covers, warm and content, and closed her eyes. "Mhmm…I live across the hall from you. I know who comes and goes."

There was a slight pause. "And what might we do if we went in there together?"

"Talk about boys and brush each other's hair, silly king," she mumbled in a terrible attempt at one last joke. She felt like the ocean was crashing in her ears; and her voice was fading but still she rambled on, barely comprehending anything coming from her own mouth, "I remember…those words you said to me…meleth nîn…what do they mean?"

"I said that?"

"You did."

There was an abrupt and palpable stillness in the air, one that she felt even through her inebriety. "I would not have said that," he said softly from somewhere behind her. With little more than a rustle of fabric, he was suddenly at the edge of her bed, staring down at her with fierce intensity. "Not to you."

"You did," Aínwar insisted again, one last yawn overtaking her.

As everything around them faded to black, she reached out lazily and brushed her finger along the ends of his hair, and she thought he might pull away…but he only continued to stare, unmoving.

"Exactly what I imagined," she murmured, before succumbing to a long, dreamless sleep.

x

"Hold on, you're going to the wrong bedroom…I thought we were going to yours?"

Thranduil raised his eyebrows. His rationale was urging him to keep the wine away from Aínwar henceforth, but he had to admit, he was quite fond of her drunken half's inappropriate silliness…and he couldn't be sure if she was joking, though a small part of him wished she wouldn't say such things without care for consequence.

"I never said that," he laughed as he laid her down. Like a newborn babe, she fumbled for the sheets, and he pulled them over her, watching as she settled into the warmth of her covers. "Who's putting words into whose mouth again?"

He quietly strode across the room and ensured her fire was stoked and had fresh wood. It'd been years since he had stepped into this room — it hadn't been occupied for several centuries, at least. Now he looked around, seeing that she had done little to change it and make it her own space. Her book was wide open upon the desk, sitting next to a bone dagger and her pendant, and a few pieces of paper that had been messily scribbled upon.

Thranduil sifted through these papers, surprised at how quickly her handwriting was improving. Most of her notes, as he expected, were nothing but random jottings and were of the same terrible but charming quality he had found strewn about his quarters:

How does one acquire a "date" for a feast?

The strap which holds a saddle to Sulimo's back is called a "girth."

Grapes are grapes, but a dried grape is a raisin

…and fermented grapes make wine?

"You're laughing at me," she said from the bed. "That's not fair. You bring dozens of other women here…"

He whipped around, insulted. "Dozens?"

She made an incoherent sound from under the sheets. It might have been a laugh. "I live across the hall from you," she said, barely audible from beneath her fortress of blankets. "I know who comes and goes."

Well, he was only a man, after all. One who had physical needs to serve, and who appreciated women like he enjoyed fine wine. And his mind — far gone beyond the limits of his control, especially with all this talk of his bedroom — resurfaced the image he had seen the week before: the erotic and tantalizing idea of Aínwar laying on her back, her black curls splayed about her head, like a spill of nighttime sky upon his sheets, golden eyes staring up at him with innocent, wanton desire…

Thranduil's mouth went dry, and it took everything in him not to accept her offer…her drunken offer, he sternly reminded himself. And yet he could not help but ask, "And what might we do if we went in there together?"

"Talk about boys and brush each other's hair, silly king..."

The heat from his body escaped him in one long, husky sigh, replaced by the unyielding sense of control that had seen him through many compromising situations. He returned his attention to her possessions, fascinated by the bone dagger and its unique craftsmanship.

"I remember," she began, just as he thought she'd fallen asleep, "those words you said to me…meleth nîn…what do they mean?"

Thranduil froze. "...I said that?"

"You did."

He could not recall such a thing ever happening, using such intimate language with her. And he assumed it must be some bizarre joke, and half-expected to see her laughing at him – but she was still curled up, hardly cognizant of her surroundings or her own words. He walked over to the bed and looked down at her near-dreaming form: legs tucked to her body, dark lashes fluttering with the onset of sleep, just like how she had looked in the chair of his study when she had whispered his name.

"I wouldn't have said that."

Not to YOU, he thought, but then he realized he had said that part aloud too. And he felt a pang of regret, having done so…thinking that it felt like a lie or, at the very least, an insult.

"You did," she said, her words nearly lost to a wide, almost cat-like yawn.

Aínwar seemed to regain awareness, even for just a moment. And before he knew it, she had reached out and was gently touching his hair. She ran her fingers through the ends and let them sweep over her palm, like playing with water. And he remained rooted all the while, unable to say or do anything, oddly and inexplicably enthralled by this display of…fascination? Affection?

"Exactly what I imagined…" she mumbled, her eyes closing and her breathing steadying at last.

Thranduil stood there, not sure what else to do. Again and again, she had proven her delight for teasing him, and more often than not he was happy to oblige her…but this was a little too peculiar for his taste. Surely, she had overheard it somewhere, or read it in a novel? Then his justifications began to stretch, culminating in "Someone put her up to it as a prank" before he realized just how stupid that sounded.

Aínwar's light, wispy breathing interrupted his thoughts, and he sat down next to her in quiet observance. He realized that he hadn't ever seen her cheekbones up-close. Not like this. They were textured but smooth, transitioning seamlessly from her skin to scale, and glittered even in the dimness of the room; his eyes wandered to the point where the crest of her forehead became obsidian horns…then to her lips, different from any other woman he had seen in their fullness…

And he acknowledged, perhaps for the first time ever, that she was utterly and mystifyingly beautiful.

When he left, he silently shut the door behind him, a faint smile upon his face.

TBC