CHAPTER EIGHT.

All things considered, having a constant presence shadowing your every move isn't that bad. Well, it depends on who you're stuck with. Today, it's Eruest, an elf with fluffy brown hair chopped short in a cloud-like shape around his head.

Eruest is part of the usual rotation. It might be a punishment for him, too, or maybe some way to get him to take more responsibility, since in my time getting to know him - which, over the past few weeks, has been a lot - he seems more inclined to turn over logs hunting for mushrooms or whatever the fuck rather than actually keeping an eye on me.

I'd just finished my morning bout with Curunír, who'd assigned me homework. This involved him tossing the pair of sparring swords at me and Eruest, who was lounging on the sidelines, and saying, "Get up, wineg. Your instincts grow weaker by the day."

Eruest stares at the wooden sword lying in the dirt, then at me. I could take him, for sure. The young elf raises his eyebrows at Curunír. "I trained yesterday, sword-master."

"Not long enough." My teacher turns away from us, his calloused hand sweeping through long blond hair to pull it away from his face as he does so. As soon as he's out of earshot, Eruest pushes himself to his feet, letting out a groan that sounds like a ninety year old man.

He couldn't be older than three hundred, honestly.

As he leans down to pick up one of the swords, I snatch up the other, slicing towards his wrist. With a surprised grunt, Eruest jumps back, parrying my attack. "You cheat - ! I wasn't ready."

"Does that matter?" I might not have built up enough skills to beat Curunír, but I'd never seen Eruest fight. He always seems to be more preoccupied with his little leather sketchbook filled with drawings of snails. And I'm thinking I might have a leg up on him.

Curunír always tells me to stay focused. In the split second you have before your blades meet, know your opponent. Find his weakness, guard yours, and only play the moves that you can. Don't get confident. Being confident gets you killed.

Eruest didn't come here expecting a fight. I don't think he knows, right now, that I'm fully intending to beat him. In a real fight, Curunír says, it's about survival. I'm not strong enough for a shield, so the only protection I have is the sword in my hand and the knowledge of how to use it.

Which, at the moment, isn't too impressive.

Eruest, though, is no sword-master. He's a trained guard, but I can tell that he's fallen behind on his practice. Curunír stands on the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest, watching us, but I'm less focused on my teacher and more focused on glancing at Eruest's feet, catching a stumble and using that as my in.

I lunge again, this time aiming for his thigh. Taking out a leg can stun your opponent enough for the killing blow. The shortsword wouldn't have enough strength, enough leverage behind the blade to take a leg clean off, but with a well-aimed cut, it could do some damage. Eruest parries - or tries to - and spins away from me, but not before the edge of my false blade grazes his thigh.

"Ow!" The elf complains, his tone shrill with indignity. I can't help but grin in response, circling him slowly. He turns on one heel, keeping his eyes on me, sword outstretched.

"What, you mad you're getting beaten by a human?" I taunt, my tongue flicking out to lick a bead of sweat that was part of a slowly-forming mustache on my upper lip. Eruest squints at me.

"You haven't beaten me yet."

Maybe I'm over-confident, or maybe I'm just confident enough that I'll win over him. I've lost my element of surprise, though, and he's gained his footing, so I have to be on my toes, too. He's hundreds of years my senior - I can't forget that.

As Curunír said, everyone that I would meet with a sword in hand would be better at it than me. And more often than not, would know seven ways to kill me before I could blink and gargle for help. The best thing to hope for, anyway, is surviving long enough to run away.

I get the feeling that he doesn't have much faith in me.

Eruest's eyes follow the movement of my body just as I do his. When he attacks my right shoulder, swinging down in a move that would separate a good portion of my head from my body if the swords were real, I side-step to the left and turn, bringing my sword up to block his and pushing it away from my body. The impact of wood against wood sends shocks up my arm.

My opponent lets out a frustrated growl as I elbow him in the gut, going after his sword-arm with my blade. With enough force I could've - in theory - taken his off at the elbow. As it were, the blunt side of the practice sword connects with his funny bone, and he yelps.

"By the light of Eru and all the- Leoma!" He swears, and I'm not stopping. Using my blade, I wrench his from his grip, slam my shoulder against his chest and stand triumphantly over him as he lands in the dirt.

It lasted… what, two minutes? Curunír's beaten me in twenty seconds. This is a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I look triumphantly at the sword-master, whose scowl has lessened somewhat.

"That was… better than anticipated." He concedes. "On your feet, wineg, you give no pride to your station by being bested by -"

"What, a human?" My face falls immediately and I can't help but snarl a bit as I say it. What, I get nothing around here? Not even a little "good job, see you tomorrow"?

"By a trainee." Curunír gives me a look that clearly says, I've had it up to here with you. Eruest gets to his feet, dusting off the seat of his tunic and picking up his sword. He extends his hand to me, and we grasp forearms.

"You did well." He says simply, with a nod of his head. I shake his hand, dipping my head as well. "Thank you. You were a…" I've lost the word. What's Sindarin for formidable? "Good opponent."

With a chuckle, Eruest shakes his head. "Not good enough. May I go, swordmaster?" He directs the question to Curunír, who hesitates for a beat before nodding his head once. The master catches Eruest by his shoulder before he leaves, saying something in quiet Sindarin that I can't quite catch. Then Curunír claps Eruest on the shoulder - the latter grunting a little in protest - and sends him on his way.

"So? Any other comments, or just that I 'did well'?" I prompt, stretching my arms above my head and feeling my spine pop. Curunír jumps at the opportunity to criticize.

"As always, you are too slow. You could have bested him the first moment you lunged, if your feet were placed solidly, like so." He uses Eruest's practice sword to demonstrate, keeping his center of balance low to move lightly and swiftly on the balls of his feet as he lunges forward. "This, simple, yes? You could have knocked his blade free, then put yours through his throat."

I blink at him. "Well-"

Curunír straightens. "In a true fight, at least." He holds out his hand for my sword, and I present it to him hilt-first.

"I don't know if I could… do that." I feel weak for saying it.

"What? Use your blade to protect yourself?"

"I don't know. Kill someone. Seems a little… extreme." We're walking towards the edge of the arena now, and Curunír chuckles.

"You will not think so when you see an orch's blade coming down on you, to split your skull open and feed on your raw flesh."

Oh, wow. He really didn't hold back. "What's an orch?" I'd heard the word before. In passing conversations among the other elves, when Ettrian gives me an excuse to disappear for days on end, and several times with the sort of tone that made me think they were some kind of bogeyman that eat children at night.

"Orch - the great enemy. The scourge on our borders." Curunír says, somewhat dismissively. He still doesn't understand, or maybe just doesn't care enough to remember, that I speak no language known to them. So, to me, the word means nothing.

"Okay, so what is it?" I ask persistently. My teacher puts the practice swords back in their place, a collection bin at the edge of the arena, and cocks his eyebrows at me. "You truly do not know? You are lucky to have never seen one."

So I keep hearing. The forest was already infested with giant spiders, and now I have to worry about yrch as well. I cross my arms, impatiently waiting for Curunír to actually explain it to me. "How am I supposed to fight one if I don't know what it is?"

"You should hope you never have to." Curunír pauses for a beat, pursing his lips. "But in the rare case that you happen to cross swords with one… it is a savage beast that serves dark masters, and one will stop at nothing to spill elvish blood. Or mannish." He looks at me briefly, then away, raising his hand to hail someone. "But you should never have to fight one - as long as you don't take it upon yourself to run away again."

"Okay, moving on," I say sourly, but, realizing that the person he's hailing is Lariel, my expression brightens.

"You won?" Is the first thing she says to me, a smile on her face. News travels fast - I can't help but be a little cocky.

"Yes -"

"Against Eruest," Curunír cuts in mildly, and we both send him a look. His lips form a thin, unamused line. "I must go. Duty calls, and so on, and so forth."

I'm not sad to see him go. Turning back to Lariel, she gives me a warm smile and lays her hand on my shoulder. "I'm proud of you, my friend. You improve every day."

Since my harrowing escape, or my attempt to, I had actually been trying harder. I'm stuck here, so I might as well learn to swing a sword. And it's been going… well, you know. As for archery? Lariel is usually my instructor there, and under her more gentle direction, I've been improving wildly. The bowstring isn't nearly as difficult to pull back anymore, and the arrow finds its mark more often than not.

Still targets, that is. I'm trying not to advance too quickly, because then I'm supposed to learn to start shooting moving targets.

Lariel loops her arm through mine, talking about odds and ends as she leads me back towards the barracks. Sometimes I feel like she sees me as a child she has to look after, some sort of pitiful creature… I don't want to be seen that way, but when she looks at me and smiles - a genuine smile - I remember that she's the first person here who showed me kindness, and she's cared enough to stick by me these past few months.

They're definitely not all like her. Even now, I get looks from the other guardsmen as we walk, a quiet side-eye that ranges from she's still here? To why is Lariel with her?

I ignore them with as much grace as I can muster, and resume my conversation with Lariel as we walk through the arched doorway and into the barracks.

The barracks are less crowded today. Usually, it houses rooms for the trainees, who are required to sleep there, storage and meeting facilities for the captains, and a banger mess hall. Most other guardsmen - like Lariel - don't live there. They have their own homes or families to return to.

"You don't have to walk with me," I give a soft, somewhat embarrassed chuckle as we round a corner in the corridor. "I know the way."

Lariel shakes her head, eyes wide. "I wanted to show you something, actually, but… it's rather a long walk. I thought I would, at least, let you put your things down?"

We've reached the entrance to my room, and I unlatch the door, swinging it open to reveal the small room I've come to know. The woven green bedspread is rumpled, the archaic mattress bearing a dent in the middle from my tossing and turning these past few nights. There's barely enough room for Lariel to stand next to me.

"Sorry about the mess." I swing the guard-issued leather bag from my shoulder. It really doesn't carry much - a water skin, a couple bruised apples, and my cloak stuffed in a ball on top. It's always cool in the mornings, but with the sun beating down over the training grounds, I never need the cloak as much as I think I do.

"I remember my days here," Lariel says warmly. "It's charming."

"Good memories?"

"Ah… yes and no. The bed gives way to sore bones, which makes it all the worse to train the next morning, doesn't it?"

We share a small chuckle, somewhat awkward on my part. "So, um… what did you want to show me?"

At this, Lariel's face brightens. She looks ageless, and I know she's seen centuries beyond my reckoning, but when she smiles like that, I feel like she's my age.

"Come with me - I want to take you to my home."

"Oh," I say, blinking rapidly as she loops her arm through mine again in friendly comeraderie, taking me back into the corridor and away from the barracks. It's rare that I leave - not that I'm stuck here, just that I really have nowhere else to go. From the training grounds, I can see the expanse of Felegoth, a city built into the trees, connected by bridges of living branches that arch up and away. But I've never walked on them - only watched the tiny, little people from a distance.

Wide open-air corridors take the place of what would be roads, branching off into stairs or other paths that lead up, down, and around. We pass collections of rooms - buildings? At this point, I'm unsure whether Felegoth is one big interconnected palace, or a true city, or maybe both - that seem to function as shops. Books sold in this one, maps in the one next to it, a shoe-cobbler with leather boots displayed in the arched window, and one with the inviting smell of bannocks wafting out from it.

"This way," Lariel tells me, amidst anecdotes from all of the shops and people that we pass, and leads me up a set of stairs that curl among the tree branches, sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. Her home is built on a small platform over a thick, sturdy branch, neighbored on both sides by similar houses, ascending or descending around the tree.

I'm a little astounded. From where I stand, I can see the horse stables, the great gates to the forest beyond, and even the river that thunders underneath and past the city. "It's beautiful," I say after a beat, and Lariel nods, no small amount of pride on her features. "Yes, isn't it? When the sun rises, I feel as if I'm basking in the light of the first trees."

I don't quite know what she means by that, but I don't question it. She opens the door to her home, leading me inside. It's… small, but surprisingly spacious. About the size of a college dorm room. There is a hearth, with tall shelves built into the wall bearing jars and crockery, and a long table set before it, three stools pulled up haphazardly on either side. The beams that hold up the ceiling are carved with vines and leaves, and as I look closer, I see that her furniture bears the same carvings. Opposite the hearth lies what looks like a chaise lounge and an ottoman, over which she throws her cloak, and turns to me. There is only one other door, which I presume leads to her bedroom.

"Welcome," she says brightly. "I know it is humble, but it is mine. May I offer you something to drink?"

Slowly, I nod, my eyes caught by a wide bookshelf built in to the wall behind her lounge. "What are these?" I ask, running my fingertip along the scrolls stacked there. Most of them are marked by a seal at the end of the central baton, written in Tengwar or, more rarely, another script. I struggle to comprehend it.

Lariel steps up beside me, handing me a steaming cup of an herbal tea. "Thank you," I say gratefully, lifting it to my lips. It's incredibly hot, but not scalding, and soothes my throat. She follows my line of sight to the scrolls and chuckles softly. "Stories, mostly, and great songs of the First and Second ages. And these…" She points to the ones marked with that unrecognizable lettering. "These are written in the tongue of Man." Her eyes search mine. I give no response. What else could I say?

"You may borrow them sometime if you wish," Lariel continues, maybe saving the awkward air descending on us. "But that is not why I brought you here. Do you know of teluyavië?" last harvest

I wrack my brain. Telu means "last", but yavië I had never heard of, or at least never remembered. It was similar to one of the first words I'd ever learned - yávien, or fruit - but not quite the same. "The last…?" I finally conjure up, to Lariel's approving smile. "Yes - and yavië means, hmm…" She looks around for props, and plucks up an apple from the table. "The gathering of plants. This is the month of Yavanna, the goddess of all growing things. In two days, the whole of the city will gather to celebrate the last yavië of the year. There will be a feast, and song, and much joy." She looks at me, hope dancing in her eyes. "I would like to see you there."

I hesitate. Is it really my place to accept? If the entire city would be there, and I would be alone in the barracks - I would be miserable. Not to mention whatever poor sod had to watch over me, since I was still under the prince's punishment.

And, for some reason, I keep remembering the banruist that Ettrian brought me to, and how, for the first time since I'd come here, that was when I felt safest.

"Thank you for the invitation," I finally say, my speech somewhat stiff and formal, but my smile reflecting my genuine thanks. "I would love to come. But -"

Lariel tilts her head back slightly, letting out an exhale - of relief? I didn't realize that she was so intent on me coming. And… really, all I have to wear is the issued uniform for the guardsmen. Is it so vain of me to be concerned about that?

"That is good, because what I wanted to show you would be irrelevant if you had said no." Lariel chuckles, sounding somewhat embarrassed, and opens the door to her bedroom. Draped over the end of the bed is a dress - a swath of fabric that shimmers like raindrops on leaves. A deep green, seemingly woven with silver, and when I touch it, it feels like air.

"Oh, my god," I utter. "It's beautiful."

It is. Lariel holds it up by the shoulders, pursing her lips as she raises it against my body. I'm flabbergasted. Actually, that falls short as a descriptor. This looks as if it were made for a princess. "I-I can't take this!"

"Why not? We are of a similar build. It will look beautiful on you." Lariel raises her eyebrows at me. "You cannot go in… well, that."

I look down at my clothes. The green tunic is a little worse for wear, and bears the distinct smell of day-old sweat. Both the knees and the seat of my pants are scuffed with dirt. I feel like a little goblin in comparison to her, who, despite wearing the same thing, carries herself with such grace and confidence I think it must scare dust away.

"Hey," I say in weak protest. "It's not that bad."

We look at each other for a moment - it is pretty bad.

"Take it. And wear it well." Lariel says firmly, folding the dress up and handing it to me. "It is my gift to you. As a friend."

The way she emphasizes it - god, I'm going to embarrass myself. Don't cry, Leo, I tell myself firmly. Don't you dare cry.

Instead I take a swig of the herbal tea she'd handed me before to cover up my hiccup, and cough loudly as it goes down the wrong pipe. Tea sprays onto the dress.

"Oh, no." Tears well in my eyes. I don't know whether I'm about to laugh or cry. "I'm sorry, Lariel."

. . TELUYAVIË . .

The tea stain came out of the dress fairly easily, and Lariel doesn't hold a grudge, bless her heart. I hang it on the back of my door and stare at it as I loosely comb through my hair. I'd spent a great deal of time in the public bath earlier that day, loosening my braids. Maybe I had left them in a little long, but hair's the least of my worries. Until today.

I'd never braided my hair completely on my own, and, being a little intimidated by the idea, I decided to forego the protective style for today and worry about that another day. My hair's grown, I realize, as I peek into the small looking glass hanging over the washbasin in my room. Before I'd left home, the last time I got my box braids installed, my curls had barely reached my jawline. Now they brush my collarbone.

A rusty-red color. My mom said my hair is almost the same color as my dad's. Just a little darker. And curlier, of course. I'm a little shocked, almost, at my appearance. I really hadn't spent all that much time looking at myself - ever - and I feel like I don't recognize the person staring back at me.

My dark auburn coils frame a face that looks older, as if I'd aged five years instead of two or so months. The starkly high cheekbones, austere nose and sharp jaw are all my father's features, but the long-lashed dark eyes that blink at the looking glass, and the frowning lips, are from my mom.

I miss her, more than anyone.

Pinching the skin of my forearm to draw me back to reality, I braid four small plaits at my temples, twisting them and drawing them around the back of my head to secure my hair. It's a style I've seen many elves wear, but as I turn my head from side to side with a frown, I'm not sure if I like it on me. I miss my box braids - and that's something I'll have to figure out later.

"And now for you," I say out loud to the small room, directing my gaze to the dress. The Elvish underclothes are scant - a bloomer-like cotton garment that falls to my upper thigh and nothing for my chest - and as I pull the dress over my head, it feels like water flowing over my body. It's made of an altogether different material than the uniform I wear everyday: that one's a warm, tightly-woven wool, and this one feels like a fine silk.

It drapes over my upper body, cupping the slight curves of my chest and hips and then cascading down my legs to the floor. The neck of the dress gathers at my shoulders with long, sweeping folds of cloth that reach the hem. I turn my head to examine the back of it, or the lack thereof - the fabric hangs elegantly at the base of my spine, exposing my entire back.

Oh, my. I wince to myself. I've never worn anything like this, and it probably wouldn't have been my first choice if Lariel hadn't given it to me.

But it is beautiful… stunningly so. It might not have been meant for me, but the deep green of it compliments my skin. I let out a satisfied exhale, picking up the edge of the dress so that it doesn't trail on the floor as I walk. The scuffed leather boots underneath won't be seen - and they're the only pair of shoes I own, so it doesn't matter, anyhow.

With that, I throw open the door. The steady stream of elves through the corridors tells me where to go - them in all their finery, grouped together and talking in low-toned Sindarin, laughing amongst themselves. Me, alone, holding my chin up rather stiffly and gripping my gown.

If they look at me, if they laugh at me for fooling myself into believing I could actually enjoy myself, have fun, I swear -

I reach the end of the corridor. Before me stands a great set of doors. I've been here before, I realize, or at least past it; the first time I left the dungeons. Beyond lies a cacophony of noise - music and the chattering of every elf in Felegoth.

"Leoma!"

I turn my head abruptly.

Lariel is… I almost don't recognize her. Her blonde hair is down, flowing down her back in rivulets, and her head is crowned by a white-gold circlet that looks like interwoven branches, loose bundles of hair wrapped around it. The cut of her dress is similar to mine, but rather than the sleeves gathering at the shoulders, hers fall to her elbows and then flow to the floor, and the fabric is a sort of whitish-silver like the bark of a birch tree. Many others filtering through , I realize quickly, are also wearing colors that reflect that of the forest: burnt gold, russet, deep mahogany, reds and browns and greens.

"It fits you well." She beams, holding out her hands. I drop my skirt and take them, a smile threatening to take hold on my lips. "Really? I've never really…" I chew on my lower lip, trying to think of the right word. "Worn something like this."

"They don't have festivals where you come from?"

I bark out a laugh. "Not like this."

"Ah, well. If this is your first, I am glad to be a part of it."

With that, she gives me a gentle tug, pulling me through the doors into the hall… and the word barely suffices for it.

Hall - no, it's a great hall. The ceiling arches high, a hundred feet or more, and iron candelabras hang from the far-away ceiling, casting a bronze light over the feast below. Long tables stretch the length of the hall, weighted down with cornucopias of food. On a far plinth, a group of elves pluck harps and play flutes, the music rising over the dull roar of many, many conversations. And, at the head of it all, seated in the middle of the highest table, is the Elvenking himself, seeming to tower over everyone even from this far away.

I'm struck dumb, and let go of Lariel's hands. She turns to me, a look of confusion settling on her face for a brief moment.

"I don't know what to do," I say, helplessly, once I can find my words, and move out of the way of the doors. Lariel's expression morphs into one of understanding. "Of course, you'll come with me. I invited you, did I not?"

Yes, she did. I scrunch my eyebrows, forcing myself to accept that fact and stop being a weirdo about it, and follow her. She weaves gracefully through the crowd; I do not, narrowly avoiding people and apologizing as I go.

When she stops at one of the tables, I almost bump into her. There are two seats, but not next to each other. A red-headed elf stands abruptly and pulls out a seat, then turns his head to look down at me.

"Ettrian." I blink in surprise. I hadn't seen him since… shit, since the hunt. "You…" I almost don't recognize him when he's not in his uniform. His usual sage-green is replaced by a silver surcoat, a long black sash stretching diagonally across his chest. It makes him look… broader, for some reason.

"Me," he responds coolly. "You look well, Leoma."

Heat rises to my cheeks. Embarrassment, I'm sure. He stares down at me for a beat, the threat of a smirk playing on his lips. There's nothing for him to laugh at, but I know him. He'll make a joke out of something.

"Your seat." He nods down at the chair that he pulled out. I hadn't realized that it was for me. I sit down hurriedly, smoothing the dress over my thighs as I do so, trying very hard not to sit on the long sleeves.

"Thank you." I don't look at him when I say it. I can see, though, from my periphery, that he rubs his chin and opens his mouth, then shuts it.

Lariel's seat is two down from me, leaving me next to an elf I've met once in passing, Gwilain, and Ettrian on the other side. I still can't forget the way he looked at me after the hunt - which seems so long ago now - but how could I move past that?

He called me stupid, after all.

I look to my left, at Gwilain. Tall, his hair a light copper, and stunningly beautiful as all elves seem to be. He's pouring wine into his cup from a long-necked silver pitcher, and when he sees me staring, he beckons his other hand. "Here. Let me pour you your first drink of the evening."

Holding my goblet under the pitcher, it's soon filled near to the brim with deep-violet, sweet-smelling wine. "Thank you," I say, bringing it up to my lips for a sip. Gwilain watches me intently, and I only realize it's to see my reaction after I swallow. Because when I do, it's with a coughing fit.

"Fuck! Oh my god!" English. "That's… really strong." Then Sindarin.

"Dorwinion wine," Gwilain supplies with a wry smile. "The king's best."

And I thought ceuránsuc was strong. Apparently, I have a lot to learn.

Ettrian leans over. He smells like pine needles. I wrinkle my nose. Why did I focus on that?

"And you poured her a full glass, Gwestir? She'll be out before the king's speech."

I furrow my eyebrows. So - his name's not Gwilain, I'm guessing. And I'm tired of Ettrian's nerve.

"Why does it matter? It's just wine." I force myself to take another sip. The taste is somewhere between an orchard and gasoline. Like a delectable Christmas fruit bowl dipped in isopropyl.

"An… incredibly strong wine." Ettrian's eyebrows raise as I defy him by draining my glass. "Made for elves… and even then, elves who can tolerate their alcohol."

"I partied in college," I reply, not even realizing I've switched back to my mother tongue until I see the expression on his face. Fuck. It takes me a minute to remember where I am. My tongue feels a bit soupy. "I mean - I'll be fine."

He hands me a goblet of clear liquid. After a sniff, I deduce it's water. Down the hatch. Setting down the cup, I feel only slightly more clear-headed. One glass of wine. "What's… in that stuff?"

"Grapes," Gwilain - no, Gwestir - says helpfully.

Let it go, Leoma, I tell myself; tonight is not the night to rip my hair out. Or his. Even after the water has washed down my throat, I can feel the wine taking hold. This was no collegiate's bottle of tequila, though it burned in much the same way.

"Dorwinion wine," Ettrian confirms, seeing my expression, which is muddled somewhere between pleased with my circumstances and utterly disgusted with the taste.

"I'm fine." I ball my fists, my tone as cool and collected as I can make it. I won't let them draw their own conclusions.

It was then that the singing started, or, at least, then that I noticed it - high, clear voices, twinkling like starlight. The words I didn't recognize; I know it's not Sindarin. Chatter had nearly drowned the music out, but in this pause that Ettrian isn't mumbling in my ear, the music swells and rises. It feels as if the chorus is giving form to their voices, a form that reaches ghostly fingers straight into my soul.

Or maybe that was the alcohol.

"You should eat."

Gwestir's sudden voice makes me jump, and then shiver. I'd been too transfixed on the music, everything else had been pushed aside. His voice, first seeming far away, becomes more distinct. "Soak up the alcohol, so you can drink more." He begins piling food on my plate - roast venison, apples, mushrooms, sweetbreads.

"She's not drinking more," Ettrian interjects, and I roll my eyes. Could I really not be sitting next to Lariel? Instead I'm stuck beside this buffoon. "When did you become my keeper?" I retort, and reach for the wine. It tastes awful - to me, at least - but now I'm bent on proving him wrong.

"I'm a friend, and a concerned one," he says, and if he's speaking earnestly I'm too drunk to tell. I ignore him and pour myself another glass. It turns my stomach to drink it. Gwestir was right - I should've eaten.

I meet Ettrian's eyes over the rim of the glass, a sort of I told you so glare as if to challenge him. He thinks he has some sort of authority over me, does he? I'm tired of men thinking that they have some sort of right to protect me - no, I'm tired of elves treating me like a delicate little child, or someone that's never drunk wine before. Yes, I've never drunk Dorwinion wine before, but let's not argue the semantics.

He huffs a sigh and turns away, his attention moving to someone sitting on his other side. For some reason, that bothers me, too. Everything he does bothers me - I don't like his attention, or his unwarranted advice, or his hazel-green eyes squinting at me the way they do. I angrily rip apart a heel of bread and stuff it into my mouth. Gwestir's saying something, but his voice is muffled in my head, and I have to smile and nod. He pours more wine into my goblet. My smile drops.

"You can't waste it now," he says jovially. Time seems to warp and the room feels like the heartbeat in my head. Gwestir wears a halo, and maybe he has three eyes. No, that can't be right. He had four. Because he's two people... right? No - a twin. What's his twin's name? I need water.

I'd forgotten, of course, that Gwestir had filled my cup two seconds ago with the devil wine, and nobody stops me from drinking it because all eyes turn now to the Elvenking, who seems tiny and distant from his grand table at the head of the room. His voice, too, is all at once tinny and booming. "Great friends of old, my kinspeople and subjects, we all gather now under the light of our sacred stars, to celebrate the fruits of our labor, of Yavanna, and of the great forest that we call home."

He could've cut some words out for sure. Everybody else goes wild, applause breaking through the room. I choke on my last mouthful of wine and awkwardly slap my thigh with one hand, the other still clutching my silver goblet. The Elvenking continues, "Tonight is a night for drinking and making merry, as I know many of you have already begun..." Oh, god, it goes all the way to the top. He's talking about me. "...But the wine is sweet and the pitchers are plentiful, so by my blessing - " He lifts his hands to still the applause. "We will drink until dawn!"

A massive roar erupts through the crowd, and wine is passed around again. I lift my hand to refuse. I think I'm going to throw up in my lap. The king seems to be the size of a mouse, but I can see his leering smirk from here. At a small motion of his hand, the din quiets to a murmur, then silence.

"The sun has set on autumn, and as we enjoy the last bountiful feast of its season, I bless the lighting of the great ruimen to see us through the winter." From one end of the room, an attendant sets flame to a pile of kindling in the great stone hearth. either side is carved to resemble a tree trunk, its branches twisting over the mantle, in which are set several gems that catch the light and twinkle like stars. I'm transfixed - rooted to my seat - the whole room undulates like the flame and I could fall into its warmth and never return.

"Now, drink, eat, and dance like your king commands it," the Elvenking says, raising his goblet and downing it in one gulp, which would have impressed me if I hadn't done the same already. The chorus of singers starts back up, lyre-music filling the hall, and Lariel appears before me.

"Come, Leoma. We must dance!" she says, taking my hands. I thought I was sitting down. When had I stood up? The floor sways beneath me. She's laughing at me - or maybe just laughing - and I throw my head back and laugh too. I'm standing in place, and the room spins as Lariel holds my hands. Then the room jerks and stops and we're spinning, and I'm going to throw up in her face.

I think she notices, the second my expression changes, because we stop and she pats my back as I hunch my back and gasp for air. "There, there," comes her distant, soothing voice. "It's alright, Leoma. Just breathe."

"I'm okay," I say weakly. Thank god nothing came back up. I straighten, leaning on her briefly. For a second, my vision has cleared. The chorus of elves singing is like angels rejoicing in song at my epic comeback. Well... maybe it's not one for the history books, but I'm upright and talking.

"Are you sure?" Lariel asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Dorwinion wine is famed for -"

No, we're not doing this again. I throw my hands up, almost smacking her in the face. "I'm so sure! Let's dance! Get to it!"

Now, listen. I've never been the type to party. Never been to a rave. One concert under my belt. But get me drunk enough and I promise you I'll deliver. I'm dancing to my own beat, music swirling in my head and out through my limbs. There's very little rhythm, but I'm having the time of my life.

I raise my hands above my head and close my eyes, throwing them out in a lasso move in what I think is roughly Lariel's direction. I can hear her laughter, mixed with others. I mime pulling myself forward, towards her, gyrating my hips... and open my eyes to see that it is not Lariel that I'm about to grind on.

It's the prince.

Lasgalen looks down at me, and I look up at him. He's holding a goblet of wine and looks like he's never been on a dance floor at all. Or maybe... he just needs to be shown how it's done?

I think every elf in the room sees what's going through my head the second that it does.

Before I can drop it low, someone grabs my wrist and hisses, "Leoma, get yourself together."

And I turn around and slap Ettrian across the face.

. . TELUYAVIË . .

Embarrassingly, yes. That's where my memory ends.

I wake up to a white ceiling. Not the one in my bedroom. My head hurts so badly that I think it's going to pound right out of my skull.

"Make it stop," I groan.

"Hear, hear." An equally pathetic voice agrees.

I flop my head to the side and can vaguely make out Eruest, sitting on a chair next to the bed in the healing ward. He's resting his cheek on his hand, dark rings under his eyes. I squint. "They have you working when you're hungover?"

Look at me, stringing more than three words together.

Eruest tries to straighten, but pretty immediately droops again. "Alas, I do not get sick leave." He tosses me a look. "But you do. Pass out one time..."

"I passed out?"

I have to wrack my brain to remember. I got mad at Ettrian, drank, got mad again, drank some more, danced with Lariel, danced with Legolas, got mad... oh, fuck. I sit up too quickly, my stomach almost lurching out of my mouth. "Tell me what everyone else saw."

"Do you mean when you pretended to catch the prince like one does an escaped horse? Or when you laid hands on Captain Ettrian for trying to stop you from doing worse?"

Burying my face in my hands, I groan, "It can't be that bad, can it?"

Eruest gives me a nervous pat on the shoulder. "Probably not."

"Do you think I'm going to get invited to another party?" I lift my head to look at him, full of misery and vomit and other, worse things.

"...Probably not, mellon nîn."

. . TELUYAVIË . .

AUTHOR'S NOTE. I return from the dead. This chapter... is the longest I've ever written. To make up for lost time, perhaps? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Please drop a review if you didn't. I love hate mail. As always, all translations are from eldamo dot org and elfdict dot com, although I lost some of the translations since I started writing this a year ago.

TRANSLATIONS

Wineg - "young one". A mystery translation. It made sense at the time I wrote it, I suppose.

Teluyavië - "the last harvest", from telu- (last) and yavië (harvest). A fictional festival celebrating the last harvest of the year.

Mellon nîn - "my friend", from mellon (friend) and nîn (my).