Chapter Seven

Ayla could not shake the coldness creeping through her bones, though it was the silence that truly disturbed her. Thranduil, whose presence once brought her comfort, was now a source of unsettling tension. The events of the past few hours replayed in her mind—the sharp edge of her brother Isildur's accusation, the haunting realization of how much her powers had grown, and Thranduil's lingering gaze, no longer one of warmth or affection, but of intrigue. He had never looked at her like that before. Like she was… a weapon.

Ayla had sense his mind was elsewhere upon their journey back from Dale. His posture had become rigid, his jaw clenched in thought, and she did not need to ask him to know what he was thinking about. Her powers. The very thing that separated her from ordinary omegas, from ordinary people, from the timid image she had allowed herself to portray for too long. She vividly recalled the subtle shifts in his demeanor—the calculations, the way his eyes would momentarily flick to her as if measuring her worth beyond her status as his Fated.

A shudder ran down her spine, and her thoughts spiraled back to the moment she had seen Mairon in the mirror, his eyes locking with hers, the ring pulsing like a heartbeat. Their son's heartbeat. The ring had glowed softly in his hand, not with malice, but with life. Ayla's hands instinctively found her chest, pressing lightly against the fabric of her dress as though to feel the child that had once grown within her. Was it possible? Had she made a terrible mistake?

Was my son truly sacrificed, or did Mairon spare him in some cruel twist of fate?

Ayla's vision blurred, overwhelmed by the uncertainty clouding her mind. The image of her son's soul being used to forge the One Ring had been burned into her memory, but doubt gnawed at her resolve. She had not felt his death. She had felt the loss—the emptiness in her chest—but she had not felt the severing of the bond between mother and child. The heartbeat within the ring, the pulsing light—it haunted her now.

Could I have been wrong? she thought, her breath hitching. She had been so emotional, so devastated by the sight, that she had run without looking back, driven by fear, anger, and pain. But what if her perception had been clouded by those very emotions? What if Mairon had found another way—something far more insidious than outright murder? Could her son still live, bound within the ring?

The thought clawed at her.

Her thoughts returned to Thranduil. He did not know her full story, nor did she trust him with it. Not anymore. Not with the new edge to his interest, the way his mind seemed to latch onto her powers as though they were the key to something greater.

He had always been protective, but now he seemed calculating. It reminded her of the way Mairon had been in the early days—always gentle, always offering the world to her, but underneath… underneath there had been a dark intention she had ignored for too long.

What have I done?

She had thought Thranduil was different. That the bond between them was the answer to the darkness that had consumed her life in Mordor. She had fled, believing that her fate lay elsewhere, far from the shadow of the Dark Lord. But now, as doubt gnawed at her heart, Ayla wondered if she had traded one cage for another. Thranduil had always spoken of her as his Fated, but now, now she feared he saw something more. A tool. A weapon to wield.

She kept replaying the image of Mairon, his dark eyes watching her through the mirror, the ring in his hand like a promise and a curse. Her mind screamed for her to run. Run where? Back to Mordor? Back to Mairon? She couldn't—she wouldn't. But she had no choice but to face the reality of her situation. Whatever the outcome of that conversation, it would change everything.

Her fingers tracing the mark at her neck. Her thoughts returned to Mairon, to the shadows in her dreams, and to the pulsing light of the One Ring.

Ayla's thoughts drifted back to her time in Mordor with Mairon, comparing it to the life she had left behind in Gondor. In Gondor, her life had been one of confinement and forced expectations. As a princess and an omega, she was deemed fragile, unworthy of any position of power, and valuable only for her ability to produce heirs. Her role had been determined long before she was born—an obedient daughter and eventual breeder for a political alliance. Her world was shaped by the rules and limitations of the human court, which had no place for someone with ambition or strength of will.

The word "weak" echoed in her mind, recalling how her own father had used it to describe her. She was meant to be quiet, compliant, a reflection of the ideals of her people. It was a life of constant suppression, her every action scrutinized and controlled. Ayla had never been allowed to live freely or dream of being anything more than an obedient daughter. Her father made sure of that, and the court enforced those standards with the rigid expectations they placed on all omegas.

But Mairon, over time, had torn those shackles away. At first, he had treated her like the rest of them—delicate, easily broken, something to be owned and molded. In the early days, he was careful, patient, almost too gentle. His dominance was present, but he was never forceful, playing the part of a mate, though a dark and sinister one. She had been frightened at first, unwilling to see the layers beneath his imposing exterior. But as the years passed, Ayla saw how Mairon changed, how he began to treat her not as a fragile possession but as something more. He saw in her the strength and power that Gondor had denied her.

In Mordor, Ayla was not sheltered. She had been allowed to roam the great halls of the dark fortress, study in the grand library, and hone her mind. She had not been barred from the war councils like she had been in Gondor—where her presence was deemed unnecessary. Mairon had given her a place at his side, encouraged her to explore her capabilities, and taught her the complexities of ruling, war, and power.

When her powers of foresight began to emerge more fully, Mairon had not been afraid. Instead, he nurtured her abilities, training her to use them to their fullest potential. He taught her to wield her power, not just for his benefit but for hers, in ways that no one had ever cared to teach her in Gondor. It had been frightening, exhilarating, and liberating all at once. In Mordor, she wasn't just an omega—she was Mairon's equal, his partner.

Ayla could still remember the intensity of his gaze when he realized she was far more than the human court had ever allowed her to be. Mairon had stripped away the chains that Gondor had wrapped around her, and with him, she had felt free for the first time in her life. He had never shied away from her ambitions or her desires, nor had he tried to force her back into the mold of the obedient princess she had been raised to be. That freedom had come with a price—one she was no longer sure she had understood fully at the time.

Her hand rested over her stomach, recalling the days when she had carried their child and the darkness that followed after his birth. Mairon's cold calculation had shattered that delicate balance. The power he craved had consumed him, and Ayla had run, believing that her son was gone, lost to the One Ring.

Yet, the memories of her time in Mordor clung to her. She couldn't forget how alive she had felt there—how powerful. It was not love that she had fled from, but the fear of what Mairon had become, what he might do next. And now, as she compared that time with her life here in the Woodland Realm, Ayla realized that the same constraints were threatening to close around her once more.

Thranduil was different from Mairon, yes—but that glimmer in his eyes, the one that saw her powers as a tool, a means to an end, was too familiar. Would he also try to mold her into something for his own gain, just as Gondor had done? Would her fate always be to serve the desires of men—whether it be for their kingdoms or their wars?

The pulse of the One Ring echoed in her thoughts again, and doubt crept in.

Ayla sat alone, her thoughts in turmoil as she reflected on the two men who had shaped her recent life—Mairon and Thranduil. It was impossible not to compare them. She had grown to love Mairon, not instantly but over time, despite his dark nature and ambitions. Though he had never said the word "love," his actions had spoken volumes. His affection had been shown in his unyielding presence, the freedom he granted her, and the way he treated her as an equal rather than a possession. With Mairon, her growth as an individual had been nourished, even as darkness surrounded them. It was twisted, yes, but in those moments, it had felt real, tangible.

She had whispered her love to him during moments of quiet intimacy, thinking it would be enough. And though he hadn't returned those words, she had always felt that, in his way, Mairon cared deeply for her. That was part of why it had hurt so much when he sacrificed their son—if he could do that, then had she ever truly understood him?

Her feelings for Thranduil, however, were far more complex. When she had first encountered him, it was out of necessity and fear. She had run from Mairon, afraid of what he would do to her or, perhaps more truthfully, afraid of what he might have made her become. Thranduil had been an unexpected protector. He had offered safety and stability, and for a time, that had been enough. Ayla had allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something real between them.

But had she mistaken gratitude for love? Now, after their encounter in Dale and the unsettling intrigue in Thranduil's eyes when he spoke of her powers, she felt doubts gnawing at the edges of her mind. Was this bond between them authentic or merely driven by the idea of them being Fated? Could she trust her feelings, or had she been manipulated by the very nature of their bond?

The idea that they were Fated mates had initially been a source of comfort. It gave her a sense of belonging after she had fled Mordor. But the more she thought about it, the more she doubted. Was their connection truly born of fate, or was it something that had developed out of necessity? Had she been grasping at the concept of being Fated as a way to justify her escape from Mairon, to find solace in something safe? She couldn't shake the thought that her feelings for Thranduil weren't entirely her own, that they had been influenced, lured by the storybook idea of fate.

Ayla's hand absentmindedly traced the mark on her neck—the bond that tied her to Mairon, a bond that hadn't broken, even when she ran. And then, she thought again of the Palantír vision, the sight of the ring pulsing with the beat of her son's essence. Had she been too quick to run from Mordor? Had she acted out of fear rather than truth? Her mind spiraled, questioning her every action. Had her decision to leave Mairon been based on emotion rather than logic? Had her judgment been clouded by the pain of losing her child?

Was it possible she had misunderstood everything?

Her hand moved to her chest, the weight of her choices pressing heavily on her.

Ayla stood up, staring at the paintings that she had carefully stacked against the wall in one corner of her room she had turned into her art station. Each canvas was a vivid reminder of the visions she had experienced in her dreams—glimpses of a future that always seemed to carry an air of uncertainty and danger. The weight of her foresight hung heavily in the air, and she felt suffocated by the imagery. They weren't just paintings; they were fragments of her soul, her subconscious made manifest in strokes of color.

But now, those fragments had become weapons.

The thought of anyone, especially Thranduil or his father, using her powers for their own gain filled her with dread. The paintings—beautiful but treacherous—had the potential to become tools, not of hope, but of manipulation. They were pieces of herself she could not afford to leave exposed. The visions might tell the future, but they could also destroy everything if they fell into the wrong hands. Even the paintings of Rhun and its beautiful vastness could be used to their advantage.

With a determined resolve, Ayla moved towards the closest painting, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the canvas. It depicted a darkened sky over Mirkwood, clouds churning like an angry sea, threatening to drown the forest in shadow. She yanked the canvas off its frame, the sound of the fabric tearing harsh and satisfying in her ears.

One by one, she ripped down each painting—visions of battles, of fire, of faces she didn't yet know, and places she hoped never to see. Her hands trembled as she worked, each tear releasing the tension in her chest, but each one also pulling at the part of her that wondered what the future would hold now. What she was doing felt like defiance—against fate, against her powers, against everyone who might try to control her. It was an act of rebellion, but also of desperation.

The pile of torn canvases grew at her feet, and with every rip, her mind grew more chaotic. She didn't want to see these visions anymore, didn't want them hanging over her like a curse.

She dragged the pile to the fireplace, her breathing ragged, and knelt before the hearth. The flames were low, flickering with faint light, but she stoked them higher, watching the fire catch and grow. Without hesitation, Ayla tossed the canvases into the flames. The oil paintings hissed as the fire devoured them, the colors warping and distorting as they burned.

There was only one painting left.

Ayla's hand trembled as she held the painting of Mairon, dressed in his flowing black silk robes. It was different from the others—more personal, more intimate. His dark eyes seemed to watch her even from the canvas, and for a moment, Ayla felt the weight of the memories they shared. The fire crackled behind her, eager to consume it like the others, but she hesitated.

This wasn't just a painting of a man. It was a reminder of the life she had left behind—the passion, the pain, and the complex love that had grown between them. Her fingers brushed over the fine details, the depth of the black silk that cascaded over Mairon's powerful form.

A part of her wanted to throw it into the flames, to be rid of the reminder of her past with him. But another part, the part of her that still felt something for the Dark Lord, couldn't let go so easily. He had once been her world, her everything. He had shaped her in ways no one else had, bringing out strength and independence that she hadn't known she possessed.

Ayla's eyes filled with tears as she stared at his figure, regal and haunting, a vision of both beauty and darkness. The memory of the ring, glowing with the pulse of life, resurfaced in her mind, and doubt gnawed at her soul. With a heavy heart, she set the painting aside, away from the flames. She could destroy all the other visions of her future, but this one… this one she couldn't yet bring herself to burn.

Instead…

She carefully removed the canvas from its frame, unable to bring herself to rip it off like she had the others. Once it was off she gently rolled it up and secured it with string before slipping it behind the headboard of her bed.

As the last of the paintings crumbled into ash, Ayla stared into the flames, her heart heavy but her resolve set. The future would remain uncertain, but she would not allow these visions to dictate her life—or anyone else's.

xxxxx

Orophor's chambers were dimly lit as Thranduil sat with his father, his mood as dark as the room itself. His conversation with Ayla had left him conflicted, but his father's words had resonated with him in a way he could not describe.

"We are at a crossroads, my son. Sauron's forces grow stronger each day, and soon, we will face war. But we have something—someone—that can turn this in our favor."

Thranduil's jaw tightened. He knew where this conversation was headed, but he kept silent, waiting for his father to reveal his plan.

"Ayla," Orophor continued. "Her powers are the key to defeating Sauron. With her foresight, we can anticipate his moves, weaken his strategies. She could be the weapon we need to not just survive, but to turn the tides of war."

Thranduil shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Ayla being used as a tool. Despite the rising tension between them, he couldn't shake the protective instincts he had toward her. He had seen her as more than just a power to exploit. Yet, his father's words were cunningly persuasive.

Orophor's eyes gleamed in the flickering candlelight. "If we can harness her powers properly, Rivendell and Lothlórien will join us. The remaining elven realms will see the strength we hold, and together, we can obliterate Sauron's armies. Afterward, we will reclaim the lands that were rightfully ours, the lands the humans took."

Thranduil's mind raced. The idea of reclaiming their lost glory, of bringing the elves back to the pinnacle of their power, was deeply tempting. But it came at a cost—Ayla. She would be pivotal to this plan, and his father had already blackmailed her once. Could he stand by and let her be used again?

Yet the future of his people weighed heavily on him.

"We need her, Thranduil," Orophor said, his voice softer but no less dangerous. "The humans have grown arrogant, taking what is not theirs. With Ayla, we can reclaim our strength and rule these lands once more. And after Sauron is defeated, who will stand in our way?"

Thranduil's heart beat heavily in his chest. His father's vision was clear, seductive even. The elves, ruling again with the strength and wisdom they once held. But at what cost? Could he truly condone using Ayla like this, knowing what it would mean for her freedom, for her spirit?

He swallowed his inner turmoil and nodded. "I will speak with her. We will do what must be done for our people."

Orophor leaned forward, his sharp gaze piercing through the dim light. "You are not thinking clearly, Thranduil," he said, his tone shifting into something both commanding and manipulative. "This infatuation you feel for Ayla, this belief that she is your Fated, is nothing more than your alpha instincts clouding your judgment." Thranduil stiffened, but Orophor continued, unrelenting. "You have to see the larger picture. Our people are on the brink of war, and she holds the key to our survival. You cannot let your emotions blind you to that."

Thranduil frowned, the conflict inside him deepening. "My instincts—what I feel for her—is not simply a product of being an alpha. I know what this is. We are meant to be together."

Orophor let out a low, mirthless chuckle. "Meant to be? You truly believe that, don't you?" He stood up, pacing slowly. "Love, fate, these romantic notions— they are nothing but the fragile delusions of omegas and the sentimental weakness of alphas who don't understand what power truly means. You are a prince, and you have a kingdom to protect. There is no room for such distractions."

"Distractions?" Thranduil's eyes darkened, anger flaring briefly. "She is not a distraction, Father. She—"

"She is a tool, Thranduil," Orophor interrupted, his voice suddenly cold, silencing his son. "A weapon that we must wield carefully. Do not mistake lust and primal need for something greater. If you cling to this fantasy of being her Fated, you will only hinder yourself—and her. You must think strategically."

Thranduil's fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. Orophor pressed on, sensing the cracks forming in his son's resolve.

"You care for her, I know that," Orophor continued, his voice softening ever so slightly, though the manipulation behind it was palpable. "But in times like these, you must steel your heart. Sacrifices will need to be made if we are to ensure the survival of our people, of our realm."

Thranduil's heart pounded in his chest, his mind spinning. Could his father be right? Was his attachment to Ayla nothing more than a primal instinct, a distraction from what truly needed to be done?

"We are elves, Thranduil," Orophor said quietly. "Our glory has faded, and our time is slipping away. But with Ayla, we can restore that glory. We can build a future where the elves are no longer relegated to their dwindling forests. We can push the humans back, reclaim the lands that were once ours. All of this is within our grasp—but only if you are willing to do what must be done."

Thranduil looked down, the weight of his father's words pressing heavily upon him. The conflict between his heart and his duty roared inside him like a storm. He could feel the pull of his alpha instincts, the drive to protect Ayla, to be close to her, but his father's words tugged him toward a darker, more pragmatic path.

"Do not let this false idea of being Fated bind you," Orophor said, his voice low but firm. "You are a prince first. Your people need you. Ayla is a piece in this game, one we can use to win. Let go of these foolish notions and steel yourself for what lies ahead."

Thranduil's jaw clenched, his eyes hardening as he looked up at his father. "And what of Ayla's will in all this? Do we force her into a fate she may not want?"

Orophor's gaze was cold and calculating. "Her will is irrelevant. She has already been bound by forces far greater than us—Sauron's claim on her, her powers, the war itself. You can still give her purpose. You can still protect her in ways Sauron never could. But to do so, you must control the situation. She is ours now—whether she realizes it or not."

Thranduil felt his heart harden, his father's words resonating deeper than he wished to admit. The idea of Ayla as a tool, a means to secure their people's future, began to settle in his mind, twisting his once noble intentions into something colder.

Orophor's gaze was sharp, watching his son's inner turmoil with the satisfaction of a predator seeing its prey hesitate. He had his hooks in Thranduil now, and he wasn't going to let go until his son understood and accepted the necessity of their path.

"Think of it this way," Orophor said, his tone soft but insidious, "What we do is not merely for ourselves, but for our people, for the future of our race. The elves are fading, Thranduil. We've lingered too long in the shadows while men thrive and expand. Our time is running out, and with it, our power. Ayla's gift is not just some parlor trick—it is the key to tipping the scales back in our favor."

Thranduil frowned, looking torn, but Orophor pressed further. "You care for her, I know. You wish to protect her, do you not? Then think about this—what is the best way to ensure her safety? With us. With you. As long as she remains with the elves, within the Woodland Realm, no harm will come to her. She will be safe, sheltered from Sauron's grasp."

The idea of keeping Ayla safe struck a chord in Thranduil, and Orophor could see it. He leaned closer, his voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial. "And when her heat comes, you will make her yours, completely. Once you mark her, Thranduil, she will have no choice but to stay with us, with you. She will be bound to our cause, body and soul. It is the only way to guarantee her loyalty."

Thranduil's eyes flickered, the tension clear on his face. "I won't force her, Father."

"Force her?" Orophor echoed, his voice dripping with false innocence. "You misunderstand. Her heat will bind her to you naturally. She will seek you out when the time comes. You won't have to force anything. Once you're mated, she will see reason. She will understand her place is with you, with us." Orophor paused, his next words deliberate and measured. "And she will love you for it."

Thranduil swallowed, doubt gnawing at him, but Orophor was relentless.

"I know you feel that there is some bond between you, but what is truly at stake here is the survival of our people. Ayla's power, guided by your leadership, can turn the tide of this war and beyond. Together, you can secure the strength of the elves once more. But she needs to be controlled, Thranduil. She needs guidance, and who better to give it than you?"

The notion of control sent a shiver down Thranduil's spine, and he fought against it, but the logic was undeniable. Orophor leaned back slightly, letting his words sink in. "If you care for her as you claim, then bind her to you. It is the only way. When the time comes, let nature take its course. Her instincts will align with yours, and once you've marked her, there will be no more questions. She will belong to you."

Thranduil closed his eyes briefly, the weight of Orophor's words pulling him further from the idealism he had once clung to. Was this really the path he needed to walk? Could he truly bind Ayla to him, ensuring her safety and loyalty, while also using her power to protect his people?

Orophor watched his son carefully, knowing the battle waging inside him. "This is not about love, Thranduil. It's about survival. You must be strong enough to do what is necessary. Not for yourself, but for the elves."

Thranduil opened his eyes, the flicker of doubt still there but dimming under the pressure of duty. Orophor's lips curved into a thin smile. He had sown the seeds of doubt, and now they were beginning to take root.

"Steel yourself, my son," Orophor said quietly. "Your feelings, whatever they are, cannot come before the fate of our people. When the time comes, you will know what you must do."

Thranduil stared into the fire, his mind heavy with the weight of Orophor's words.

xxxxx

Kwenthrith, having overheard the sinister plot between Orophor and Thranduil, was torn between loyalty to the elven realm and her growing affection for Ayla. Though she had been a devoted servant, the thought of Ayla being used for her powers twisted her heart, and she resolved to save her lady, even if it meant betraying her king and prince.

Betraying her own kind.

Late at night, Kwenthrith began laying plans for an escape, quietly gathering provisions and plotting a path. As she attended her duties as Ayla's handmaid and readying a bath, she sensed something was amiss with her lady. Ayla's cheeks were flushed nearly crimson, her eyes hooded and heavy as if warring against sleep, and even though Kwenthrith was a beta, she could smell that the air around the omega was sweeter.

Panic seized her as she immediately recognized the signs, knowing that Ayla's vulnerability during her heat would make escape impossible. The timing was cruelly perfect for Orophor's plan, and it left Kwenthrith with a single-minded resolve. Yet, the deeper fear gnawed at her—the knowledge that Thranduil would soon be drawn to Ayla's heat, his alpha instincts overpowering reason. Would she have the strength to intervene, or was it already too late for both of them?